UC-NRLF 


251    33b 


totbmfae  Jliterature  Aeries 


SONNETS 

SELECTED   FROM 
ENGLISH    AND   AMERICAN 
AUTHORS 

BY 

LAUEA  E.  LOCKWOOD,  Pn.D. 

ASSOCIATE  PROFESSOR  OF  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE 
IN  WELLESLEY  COLLEGE 


BOSTON      NEW  YORK      CHICAGO 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

R.   L.   S.  244 


Qtye  XUberrfbe  $rt** 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .    S   .   A 


PREFACE 

IN  bringing  together  this  group  of  sonnets,  I  have  had  in 
mind,  first,  the  lover  of  English  poetry  who  will,  I  hope,  wel- 
come a  small  and  convenient  volume  containing  so  many  of 
his  favorite  sonnets;  and  secondly,  my  own  students  of  Mil- 
ton, who  come  to  the  reading  of  his  sonnets  with  a  vague 
interest  in  this  form  of  poetry,  but  with  little  historical  or 
technical  knowledge  about  it.  They  need  to  read  before  and 
after  Milton,  in  order  to  understand  him  by  comparing  his 
work  with  that  of  others;  and  the  sonnet  collections  hitherto 
made  from  the  whole  field  of  English  literature  are  in  vol- 
umes too  expensive  for  use  in  large  classes. 

With  these  objects  in  mind,  I  have  read  from  Wyatt  and 
Surrey  to  the  authors  in  the  last  number  of  Poetry,  selecting 
and  rejecting,  culling  and  re-culling,  until  I  here  offer  what 
seems  to  me  representative  of  the  best  English  sonnets. 
There  appears  a  slightly  larger  proportion  of  sonnets  before 
Shakespeare,  because  these  are  least  well  known  and  also 
the  most  difficult  to  obtain.  Except  in  two  or  three  cases, 
sonnets  have  been  excluded  whose  entire  theme  is  the  de- 
scription of  natural  scenery,  since  such  subjects  rarely  have 
the  inherent  unity  demanded  by  the  sonnet,  however  beau- 
tiful they  may  be  as  poetry.  The  fact  that  sonnets  have 
appeared  in  other  collections  has  not  in  the  least  influenced 
their  inclusion  or  exclusion,  for  the  "best  is  the  best,  though 
a  hundred  judges  have  declared  it  so."  The  working  basis 
has  been  to  seek  sonnets  with  a  clear  theme,  a  definite  some- 
thing to  say;  and  as  far  as  possible  to  choose  only  those  that 
develop  this  thought,  according  to  a  clearly  conceived  plan, 
in  musical,  imaginative  language.  But  by  no  means  is  every 
one  of  these  two  hundred  sonnets  great,  for  a  great  sonnet  is 
one  of  the  rarest  things  in  literature;  real  greatness  has  been 

33l042 


PREFACE 

achieved  in  few  cases.  Some  of  the  sonnets  have  been  in- 
cluded for  significance  of  thought,  although  faulty  in  rhyme 
scheme  or  lacking  power  in  music;  others  below  excellence 
in  thought,  development,  or  diction  have  been  given  place, 
because  they  are  the  highest  achievement  of  the  unpoetical 
age  in  which  they  were  written.  If,  however,  all  together 
they  represent  the  best  our  English  poets  have  accomplished, 
they  show  how  rich,  varied,  and  significant  is  the  message 
of  the  sonnet. 

My  choice  will,  doubtless,  not  meet  the  approval  of  any 
one  person,  but  wherever  my  judgment  is  questioned  and 
my  sins  of  commission  and  omission  are  condemned,  there 
must  necessarily  be  comparison  and  discussion;  and  this  will 
inevitably  further  intelligence  regarding  the  sonnet  and 
stimulate  interest  in  its  poetry,  which  is  the  chief  end  and 
purpose  of  this  little  book. 

Many  of  these  sonnets  are  from  books  copyrighted  by 
Houghton  Mifflin  Company;  others  are  reprinted  by  cour- 
teous permission  of  various  publishers.  A  conscientious  effort 
has  been  made  to  search  out  the  holders  of  all  copyrights, 
and  it  is  hoped  that  no  acknowledgments  have  unintention- 
ally been  omitted. 

LAURA  E.  LOCKWOOD. 


INTRODUCTION 

FORM 

THE  word  "sonnet"  is  derived  from  the  Italian  suono, 
sound,  with  the  diminutive  suffix  added;  its  meaning  is, 
then,  "  a  little  sound."  This  term  was  clearer  to  the  Italians, 
from  whom  we  borrowed  the  poem,  than  it  is  to  us,  for  they 
were  in  the  habit  of  accompanying  this  form  of  verse  with 
music.  Petrarch  sang  his  own  sonnets  to  the  sound  of  the 
lute,  and  it  was  not  unusual  to  hear  the  minstrels  sing- 
ing them  from  street  to  street.  Indeed,  the  Italians  hardly 
thought  of  the  sonnet  except  as  accompanied  by  music. 

The  rules  for  the  composition  of  the  sonnet  have  been 
fixed  by  the  acceptance  and  practice  of  the  best  writers;  an- 
other kind  of  lyric  may  choose  its  number  of  feet  to  the  line, 
or  lines  to  the  stanza,  but  the  sonnet  must  have  fourteen 
lines  and  no  more,  must  have  five  beats  to  each  line,  neither 
fewer  nor  greater  in  number.  It  was  not,  however,  to  the 
Italians  any  poem  of  fourteen  five-stress  lines,  the  subject 
being  expanded  according  to  the  caprice  of  the  poet;  on  the 
contrary,  it  should  have,  if  it  were  a  regular  sonnet,1  a  clear 
and  unified  theme,  stated  in  the  first  quatrain,  developed  or 
proved  in  the  second,  confirmed  or  regarded  from  a  new  point 
of  view  in  the  first  tercet,  and  concluded  in  the  second  tercet. 
It  had  thus  four  parts,  divided  unevenly  into  two  separate 
systems,  eight  lines  being  devoted  to  placing  the  thought 
before  the  mind,  and  six  to  deducing  the  conclusion  from 
that  thought. 

This  division  was  made  clearer  by  the  use  of  pause  and 
rhyme.  There  were  three  times  when  the  poet  should  pause, 

1  There  were  also  tailed  sonnets,  with  short-lined  stanzas  following;  iterating 
sonnets,  having  only  one  or  two  rhymes;  interwoven  sonnets,  in  which  words  in 
the  middle  of  the  lines  rhymed  as  well  as  those  at  the  end;  and  several  other 
forms. 


INTRODUCTION 

after  having  given  a  definite  phase  of  his  subject,  before  he 
presented  it  in  a  new  and  brighter  light.  The  pauses  were 
thus  a  logical  part  of  the  plan  to  show  a  theme  unfolding  in 
a  clear,  yet  prescribed  way;  they  were  not  used  merely  for 
the  sake  of  pause,  or  just  to  make  the  poem  appear  neater, 
but  as  transition  that  would  render  the  logic  more  apparent. 
Moreover,  the  rigid  rhyme  scheme  aided  this  use  of  pause 
in  the  careful  blocking  out  of  thought.  The  quatrains, 
abbaabba,  were  alike  and  held  together  by  the  repeating 
a,  yet  kept  apart  by  the  definite  unity  of  pattern  in  each; 
thus  emphasizing  the  separation  and  the  similarity  of  state- 
ment and  proof.  The  confirmation  and  conclusion,  however, 
must  be  still  further  set  apart  by  a  new  rhyme  scheme,  nei- 
ther reproducing  nor  suggesting  the  succession  of  sounds  in 
the  quatrain;  the  new  scheme  did  not,  indeed,  admit  any  of 
the  rhyming  letters  allowed  in  the  quatrains,  and  it  pre- 
scribed another  and  different  arrangement  of  rhymes.  The 
favorite  order  of  the  sestet  was,  cdecdeorcdcdcd;  but 
here  much  license  was  allowed  in  the  placing  of  rhymes. 
The  rhyming  of  the  last  two  lines  was  in  general  avoided; 
both  Dante  and  Petrarch  in  a  few  instances  tried  this  closing 
rhyme,  but  evidently  considered  it  unsuitable  because  it 
would  divide  the  lines  from  the  rest  of  the  sonnet  and  give 
them  a  peculiar  significance  that  might  detract  from  the 
perfect  unity  of  the  whole. 

The  aim  and  desire  of  the  great  Italian  writers  was  that 
the  sonnet  should  close  leaving  the  reader  with  the  sense  of 
finish  and  completeness,  with  the  feeling  of  having  been 
given  the  thought  in  its  full  relation  and  also  its  final  result. 
It  must  not,  therefore,  work  up  steadily  from  the  first  line  to 
a  climax  at  the  last  line,  for  then  no  conclusion  or  conse- 
quence was  possible;  nor  must  it  be  developed  through 
twelve  lines,  to  be  finished  off  with  an  epigrammatic  turn  of 
thought  in  the  last  two  lines,  since  this  was  merely  to  startle 
or  surprise  the  mind  of  the  reader. 

No  feeble  or  obscure  line  could  be  allowed  to  stand,  and  no 
important  word  should  be  used  twice,  unless  such  repetition 
were  necessary  for  some  peculiar  effect.  The  utmost  econ- 

vi 


INTRODUCTION 

omy  must  be  practiced,  if  the  poet  was  to  present  his  thought 
entire  and  in  a  convincing,  satisfying  manner.  Such  were 
the  exacting  laws  which  the  greatest  Italian  poets  sought  to 
follow  in  their  efforts  to  create  a  perfect  sonnet. 

This  does  not  mean  that  the  laws  were  absolute  and  that 
the  poets  made  no  experiments,  but  comparatively  few 
irregular  sonnets  from  the  well-known  writers  remain  to  tes- 
tify the  search  for  another  form.  Out  of  327  written  by  Pe- 
trarch, 310  follow  the  quatrain  rhyme  scheme  as  given  above, 
and  301  conform  to  either  the  first  or  the  second  plan  for 
the  sestet. 

Our  earliest  writers,  Wyatt  and  Surrey,  accepted  the  dic- 
tum of  the  Italians  as  far  as  number  of  lines  and  of  feet  to 
the  line,  but  experimented  with  rhyme.  Wyatt  almost  al- 
ways follows  Petrarch  in  the  octave;  the  sestet  he  closes  with 
a  rhymed  couplet.  Surrey  was  less  easily  satisfied  on  the 
delicate  subject  of  rhyme;  he  never  employs  the  Italian 
rhyme  scheme,  but  usually  has  three  quatrains  in  alternate 
rhyme  with  a  couplet  at  the  close,  or  he  uses  six  alternate 
rhymes  with  one  of  these  forming  the  closing  couplet;  some- 
times again  a  new  rhyme  appears  in  the  last  two  lines. 
These  two  pioneers  consistently  employed  the  closing  coup- 
let, which  shows  that  they  either  had  not  grasped  the  rela- 
tion of  rhyme  to  thought  in  the  Italian  scheme,  or  consid- 
ered another  arrangement  better  adapted  to  the  English 
language. 

Since  the  century  of  Wyatt  and  Surrey,  the  best  of  our 
English  poets  have  established  by  use  the  canon  of  fourteen 
five-stress  lines  as  essential  to  the  sonnet;  they  have  made 
still  further  experiments  with  rhyme.  Many  combinations 
and  variations  of  rhyme  schemes  have  been  tried.  Three 
clear  types  have,  however,  predominated:  that  modeled  on 
the  form  of  Petrarch,  the  octave  abbaabba,  and  two 
or  three  new  rhymes  variously  arranged  in  the  sestet;  that 
devised  by  Surrey,  but  usually  called  after  Shakespeare 
since  his  sonnets  are  the  most  famous  composed  in  this  form, 
ab  ab  cdcdefefg  g;  and  that  contrived  by  Spenser,  abab 
bcbccdcdee,  which  has  had  fewer  followers  than  the  other 


INTRODUCTION 

two  and  at  present  is  not  often  used.  The  English  sonnet 
composed  on  one  of  these  patterns  may,  then,  have  four, 
five,  six,  or  seven  rhymes,  but  of  these  three  prevailing  types 
there  have  been  and  are  still  many  modifications.  For  ex- 
ample: Shelley's  Ozymandias,  Hallam's  Written  in  Edinburgh, 
DobelPs  The  Army  Surgeon,  and  Rupert  Brooke's  The  Sol- 
dier. Since,  however,  the  sonnet  is  a  poem  deriving  part  of 
its  charm  and  power  from  the  fact  that  the  form  is  conven- 
tional and  familiar  to  the  ear  of  the  reader,  no  one  of  these 
erratic  rhyme  schemes  has  found  many  followers.  The  mod- 
ern sonnet  remains,  with  few  exceptions,  loyal  to  the  scheme 
of  Petrarch  or  to  that  of  Shakespeare.1 

As  far  as  the  manner  of  developing  the  thought  is  con- 
cerned we  have  three  distinct  methods  in  English.  The  son- 
net may,  as  the  Petrarchian  sonnet  usually  does,  begin  and 
grow  to  a  climax  at  the  end  of  the  eighth  line,  closing  quietly 
through  the  following  six  lines  in  a  natural  sequence  of 
thought;  secondly,  it  may  be  presented  by  three  different 
statements  of  the  idea,  which  is  the  way  Shakespeare  builds 
his  sonnets,  and  close  with  a  two-line  application,  conclusion, 
or  proof;  or,  lastly,  the  thought  may  run  over  from  the  oc- 
tave into  the  sestet,  and  the  break  come,  if  there  is  any  break 
at  all,  later  in  the  poem.  Milton  was  the  first  to  construct 
sonnets  according  to  this  third  plan;  Wordsworth  and  later 
poets  very  often  follow  his  example.  Whichever  scheme  is 
adopted,  rhyme  and  pause  should  be  used  to  interpret  and 
support  the  plan  of  thought  development,  and  in  the  best 
sonnets  this  is  always  the  case.  But  the  English  poets,  lov- 
ing to  play  with  this  little  musical  instrument  of  the  sonnet, 
have  experimented  as  often  in  ways  of  unfolding  the  thought 
as  in  the  manner  of  arranging  the  rhymes. 

HISTOKY 

The  complexity  of  the  sonnet  form  would  lead  one  to  sup- 
pose a  long  period  of  experimentation  before  the  laws  were 
evolved,  settled,  and  accepted  by  poets  as  a  convention  not 

1  For  the  reason  of  this  loyalty,  see  the  discussion  by  Watts  in  Encyclopaedia 
Britannica  (9th  edition),  vol.  xxn,  p.  262. 

viii 


INTRODUCTION 

to  be  violated.  Although  this  was  in  all  probability  the  case, 
there  is  a  very  incomplete  record  of  such  tentative  feeling 
after  form.  Among  the  earliest  known  examples  occur  those 
with  the  same  number  of  lines  and  of  feet  to  the  line,  as  well 
as  something  of  the  same  rhyme  and  pause  scheme,  as  are 
found  in  the  sonnet  at  the  height  of  its  popularity.  Its  origin, 
then,  becomes  a  matter  for  the  labor,  or  the  skillful  guessing, 
of  the  scholar,  a  question  still  of  much  controversy  and  of 
apparently  impossible  solution.  Several  theories  have  been 
advanced,  each  having  its  supporters  among  students  of 
Italian  literature. 

Some  hold  that  the  sonnet  is  a  development  of  the  Greek 
epigram.1  However,  the  more  commonly  defended  theories 
are:  first,  that  the  Italian  singers  borrowed  the  form,  or  some- 
thing approximate  to  it,  from  the  Provencal  troubadours,2 
and  this  thesis  has  been  warmly  supported,  especially  by  the 
French  critics;  secondly,  that  the  sonnet  came  to  birth  in 
Italy  itself  or  at  least  in  Sicily.3  Those  who  contend  that 
Sicily  is  to  be  accorded  the  fame  of  creating  this  form  of 
poem  argue  that  the  poets  evolved  it  by  working  upon  Arabic 
models  at  the  court  of  William  II  of  Sicily  (1166-89),  whose 
devotion  to  Arab  literature  made  his  court  a  center  of  that 
study,  and  that  it  continued  to  flourish  at  the  court  of  his 
successor,  Frederick  II  (1189-1250).  Other  critics  are  as 
firmly  convinced  that  Tuscany  or  .central  Italy  should  have 
the  honor,  but  they  divide  themselves  into  two  camps  as 
regards  the  source  poem  out  of  which  the  sonnet  grew.  The 
one  group  attempt  to  show  that  it  resulted  from  a  combina- 
tion of  two  short  love-lyrics,  called  strombotti;  4  the  octave 
was  originally  the  eight-line  strombottOj  rhyming  abababab 
and  the  sestet  the  six-line  strombotto  with  rhyme,  c  d  c  d  c  d. 
These  two  the  poets  combined,  varying  the  line  and  chang- 
ing four  feet  to  five,  and  thus  produced  the  sonnet.  The 

1  William  Sharp,  Sonnets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  p.  xxxi. 

a  Sidney  Lee,  Elizabethan  Sonnets  (London,  1904),  vol.  I,  p.  xiii.  M.  Louis 
de  Vayrieres,  Monographic  du  Sonnet  (Paris,  1869). 

8  Francesco  Trucchi,  Poesie  italiane  (Prato,  1846),  pp.  xxvi-xxx.  Heinrich 
Welti,  Geschichte  des  Sonnettes  (Leipzig,  1884),  pp.  1-54. 

4  Tommaso  Casini,  Le  Forme  metriche  italiana  (Firenze,  1890),  pp.  35-38. 
Charles  Tomlinson,  The  Sonnet  (London,  1874),  pp.  7-29. 

ix 


INTRODUCTION 

other  group  hold  that  it  was  modeled  on  one  of  the  stanzas 
of  a  love-song,  called  a  canzone.1  These  popular  songs  were 
constructed  in  many  ways;  one  of  the  forms  frequently  used 
may  have  been  the  source  of  the  sonnet,  as  the  lines  of  the 
stanza  were  fourteen  and  the  rhyme  scheme  similar  to  that 
later  used  by  the  sonnetteers.  For  example,  the  stanzas  of  a 
canzone  by  Guittone  d'  Arezzo rhyme abbaabbaaccadd. 
The  octave  is  here  ready-made  in  form,  and  the  sestet  suffers 
only  change  of  rhyme.  There  are  strong  arguments  for,  as 
well  as  against,  both  the  Italian  and  the  Provengal  origin  of 
the  sonnet,  but  no  critic  has  as  yet  adduced  convincing  proof 
to  establish  the  claims  of  either  country. 

Practically  all  critics  are  agreed,  whatever  theory  of  origin 
they  hold,  that  the  earliest  known  writers  were  Ludovico 
della  Vernaccia  (about  1200),  Giacomo  da  Lentino  (about 
1210),  and  Piero  delle  Vigne  (1181?-1249);  and  that  Guit- 
tone d'  Arezzo  (1220-94)  was  the  first  poet  who  composed 
a  sonnet  in  the  form  later  approved  and  accepted  by  the 
Italian  writers.  The  sonnet  rapidly  became  popular  in  Italy, 
was  used  with  great  skill  by  Dante,  and  brought  to  the  height 
of  its  perfection  by  Petrarch. 

Whatever  its  origin  in  land  or  poem,  Pattison  is  certainly 
right  when  he  says,  "The  sonnet  — '•  both  thing  and  name  — 
comes  to  us  from  the  Italian. "  2  And  it  came  not  by  accident 
or  unconscious,  imitation,  but  brought  by  the  poets  Thomas 
Wyatt  (1503-ifil2)  and  the  Earl  of  Surrey  (1515-47),  with 
the  definite  purpose  of  introducing  it  into  England.  They 
had  traveled  in  Italy  and  fallen  under  the  spell  of  Petrarch; 
returning  to  England,  they  set  about  a  reform  of  English 
literature.  -Puttenham  tells  us:  "They  greatly  polished  our 
rude  and  homely  maner  of  vulgar  Poesie,  from  that  it  had 
been  before,  and  for  that  cause  may  justly  be  said  the  first 
reformers  of  our  English  metre  and  stile."  3  The  low  estate 
of  English  poetry  is  clear  when  such  rough  lines  and  poor 
rhymes  as  those  of  Wyatt  were  considered  a  reformation. 

1  Mary  Bowen,  Influence  of  Petrarch  upon  the  Elizabethan  Sonnet.    Unpub- 
lished Thesis. 

2  Mark  Pattison,  The  Sonnets  of  John  Milton  (London,  1883). 
8  Arber  Reprints  (London,  1869),  vol.  7,  p.  74. 


INTRODUCTION 

The  lines  are,  indeed,  often  little  better  than  stumbling 
prose.  The  subject  is  love,  exercising  itself  in  extravagant 
praise  of  bodily  beauty,  and  profuse  complaint  at  the  fair 
one's  unreasoning  coldness  and  indifference.  In  his  other 
poetry,  Wyatt  can  be  simple  and  sincere,  but  in  the  sonnets 
he  is  usually  paraphrasing,  or  attempting  to  translate  di- 
rectly, the  work  of  Petrarch,  and  with  difficulty  endeavoring 
to  maintain  the  emotional  fervor  of  his  master.  Surrey,  deal- 
ing generally  with  the  same  personal  themes,  is  more  musical, 
has  a  better  command  of  line,  a  more  graceful  and  pleasing 
diction.  The  work  of  these  poets,  done  between  1530  and 
1540,  was  not  published  until  1557,  in  Tottel's  Miscellany. 
This  book  appears  to  have  been  popular,  but,  strange  to  say, 
few  poets  sought  to  imitate  the  new  form  of  verse. 

At  this  time  in  France  a  group  of  writers,  calling  them- 
selves the  Pleiade,  under  the  leadership  of  Ronsard  and  Du 
Bellay,  set  about  vigorously  the  complete  reformation  of 
French  literature.  Their  assertion  was  that  French,  being 
crude  in  thought  and  form,  could  be  elevated  only  by  an 
imitation  of  Greek,  Latin,  and  Italian  models;  hence  one  of 
the  favorite  tasks  of  these  poets  was  the  translation,  para- 
phrase, or  imitation  of  the  Italian  sonnets,  especially  those 
written  by  Petrarch.  This  work,  carried  on  with  vigor  from 
about  1550  to  the  death  of  Ronsard  in  1584,  had  a  great  influ- 
ence in  England,  where  the  educated  read  chiefly  French 
books. 

English  thought,  under  the  stimulus  of  French  enthusiasm, 
turned  again  to  Italy,  and  the  sonnet  soon  became  the  popu- 
lar form  in  England.  Each  of  the  poets,  there  being  so  many 
of  them  that  Ben  Jouson  says  the  name  of  poet  became  a 
term  of  contempt,  tried  his  hand  at  it.  He  not  only  wrote 
one  or  a  dozen,  but  he  generally  composed  a  sequence  of  a 
hundred  or  a  list  approaching  that  perfect  number.  Thou- 
sands upon  thousands  of  sonnets  were  written,  almost  al- 
ways on  the  subject  of  love,  the  poets  seeking,  either  ser- 
vilely or  reverently,  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  Petrarch. 
They  succeeded,  however,  in  most  cases,  in  reproducing  only 
the  extravagant  love-praise  and  suffering,  but  failed  to  attain 

xi 


INTRODUCTION 

the  beauty  of  language  and  sincerity  of  emotion  that  made 
Petrarch's  sonnets  live.  Yet  there  is  a  fascination  about  the 
wailing  sorrows  and  the  glowing  praises  of  Lodge  for  Phillis, 
Fletcher  for  Licia,  Daniel  for  Delia,  Percy  for  Coelia,  Dray- 
ton  for  Idea,  Griffin  for  Fidessa,  Smith  for  Chloris,  Sidney  for 
Stella,  and  Spenser  for  his  "soverayne  saynt."  The  world 
seems  very  young,  very  fresh,  and  full  of  harmless  feeling  for 
beauty  and  love.  One  somehow  senses  the  beauty  as  real  and 
discounts  the  pain  as  only  a  means  of  enhancing  the  loveli- 
ness. The  sonnets  range  in  poetic  grace  and  emotional  sin- 
cerity from  the  happiest  creations  of  Sidney  and  Spenser  to 
the  half -indifferent  exercises  of  Drayton  or  the  banalities  of 
Smith  and  Griffin.  They  are,  to  be  sure,  in  most  cases  only 
paraphrases  of  Petrarch  or  his  French  imitators,  —  this  Sid- 
ney Lee  has  clearly  shown  us, — nevertheless,  we  like  the 
poets  who  follow  so  ardently,  as  a  child  his  toy,  their  ideal 
of  shining  eyes  and  glowing  cheeks. 

Shakespeare  writes,  too,  a  sequence  of  sonnets,  and  he  is 
of  and  not  of  this  group  of  lovers  who  praise  and  blame 
their  mistresses.  Despite  all  the  attempts  to  find  the  lady  or 
friend,  or  both,  of  his  sonnets,  the  mystery  of  their  meaning 
has  never  been  satisfactorily  solved,  yet  it  is  clear  that 
Shakespeare  does  the  same  thing  his  contemporaries  are 
doing,  only  he  does  it  superlatively  well,  with  far  greater 
power  of  thought,  delicacy  of  sentiment,  and  sweetness  of 
music.  But  the  number  of  really  great  sonnets  from  his  pen 
is  small;  the  faults  of  the  time  in  repetition,  involved  sen- 
tences, and  extravagant  emotion,  mar  the  most  of  his  son- 
nets. His  best  are  among  the  best  of  all  literature,  yet  they 
are  comparatively  few  in  number. 

With  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century  the  sonnet- 
eering vogue  had  somewhat  spent  its  force,  and  Puritanism 
began  to  frown  more  sternly  upon  all  such  idle  vanities  as 
praise  of  ladies'  beauty.  William  Drummond,  "the  Scottish 
Petrarch"  and  disciple  of  Spenser,  writes  sonnets  to  his  lady 
which  are  free  from  glorification  of  physical  charm  and  full 
of  that  which  the  Puritan  sanctioned,  religious  melancholy 
and  prayer  for  resignation.  They  are  simpler  in  language, 

xii 


INTRODUCTION 

with  fewer  elaborate  figures,  and  less  repetition  than  have  the 
earlier  sonnets;  they  lack,  however,  freshness  and  vigor  of 
imagination.  Milton,  a  little  later,  takes  time  from  the  stren- 
uous business  of  state  to  write  now  and  then  a  sonnet.  His 
sonnets  begin  in  English  a  new  type,  a  new  standard  of  fash- 
ioning this  difficult  poem.  With  one  exception,  each  stands 
by  itself,  unconnected  with  those  that  precede  or  follow, 
and  only  one  deals  with  that  favorite  subject  of  love.  Milton 
uses  the  sonnet  for  expressing  his  thought  regarding  people 
or  events,  as  a  way  of  estimating  character,  praising  deeds, 
or  seeking  to  stimulate  men  to  action.  He  combines  this 
freer  scope  of  subject-matter  with  great  simplicity  of  struc- 
ture and  diction,  composing  his  sonnets  without  adornment 
and  his  sentences  to  read  almost  as  clearly  as  prose.  Like 
Shakespeare,  however,  Milton  writes  few  of  the  highest  qual- 
ity, not  because  of  imperfect  form  or  faulty  subject-matter, 
but  because  he  is  in  only  a  few  cases  so  deeply  moved  by  his 
theme  that  emotion  makes  the  lines  glow  with  a  compelling 
vividness  and  beauty.  Before  Milton,  the  sonnet  had  been 
sometimes  dignified,  occasionally  simple  and  sincere,  in  many 
cases  passionate;  yet  rarely  before  his  work  had  these  qual- 
ities been  combined  in  the  same  sonnet. 

The  eighteenth  century  found  its  mode  of  expression  in  the 
freer  ode,  the  satire,  the  more  pointed  epigram,  and  the  elegy. 
Very  few  essayed  the  sonnet  and  still  fewer,  as  Cowper  in  one 
instance,  succeeded  in  writing  sonnets  of  worth.  Gray  in 
1742  wrote  his  one  sonnet,  formal,  artificial,  correct,  and 
classical.  Thomas  Warton  wrote  nine;  not  one  of  which  at- 
tains anything  like  the  simplicity  we  find  in  Milton,  or  the 
grace  by  which  Spenser  delights  us.  It  is  not  until  1789, 
when  William  Lisles  Bowles  published  his  little  book  of  four- 
teen sonnets,  that  the  sonnet  becomes  again  the  medium 
through  which  the  poet  speaks  simply  and  plainly  his  indi- 
vidual thoughts  and  emotions.  Bowles  followed  Milton's 
practice  in  avoiding  love-themes  and  in  making  each  sonnet 
a  unit  by  itself.  Coleridge  was  enthusiastic  over  the  work  of 
this  author,  beginning  his  own  sonnet  with  "My  heart  has 
thank'd  thee;  Bowles,"  and  again  remarking,  "Surely  never 

xiii 


INTRODUCTION 

was  a  writer  so  equal  in  excellence." l  This  praise  did  much  to 
make  these  sonnets  known  and  read. 

It  was,  however,  Wordsworth  who  re-created  and  re-digni- 
fied the  sonnet;  he  loved  and  defended  it  against  its  detrac- 
tors, using  it  separately  and  in  sequence  for  the  expression  of 
philosophy,  religion,  social  reform,  nature,  friendship,  and 
the  common  events  of  family  life.  Like  Milton,  he  gives  the 
sentence  structure  the  simplicity  and  directness  of  prose,  and 
at  his  best  develops  the  thought  within  the  rigid  bounds  of  the 
sonnet  as  easily  and  naturally  as  in  conversation.  Most  writ- 
ers since  have  striven  for  this  ideal,  which  lets  the  thought 
reveal  itself  without  the  obvious  show  of  complexly  unrolling 
phrases.  Wordsworth,  in  his  defense  and  his  practice,  as- 
sured the  acceptance  of  the  sonnet  by  the  Romantic  School, 
with  which  begins  its  renaissance  and  its  popularity  among 
modern  poets.  These  two  writers,  Milton  and  Wordsworth, 
so  stamped  the  sonnet  that  in  manner  it  has  changed  little 
since,  only  gaining  new  poetic  fervor  with  Keats  and  Rossetti 
and  Mrs.  Browning;  in  subject,  it  has  become  possibly  more 
flexible,  lending  itself  equally  as  well  to  the  old  subject  of 
intimate  love  as  to  that  of  the  impersonal  criticism  of  church 
and  state,  and  to  themes  all  the  way  between  these  two. 

1  The  Poetical  Works  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  (Macmillan  &  Company, 
1895),  p.  40. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS 


THE  DESERTED   LOVER  CONSOLETH    HIMSELF 

DIVERS  doth  use,  as  I  have  heard  and  know, 
When  that  to  change  their  ladies  do  begin, 
To  mourn,  and  wail,  and  never  for  to  lynn; 
Hoping  thereby  to  'pease  their  painful  woe. 
And  some  there  be  that  when  it  chanceth  so 
That  women  change,  and  hate  where  love  hath  been, 
They  call  them  false,  and  think  with  words  to  win 
The  hearts  of  them  which  otherwhere  doth  grow. 
But  as  for  me,  though  that  by  chance  indeed 
Change  hath  outworn  the  favour  that  I  had, 
I  will  not  wail,  lament,  nor  yet  be  sad, 
Nor  call  her  false  that  falsely  did  me  feed; 
But  let  it  pass,  and  think  it  is  of  kind 
That  often  change  doth  please  a  woman's  mind. 
Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  (1508  f  -1 


THE  LOVER  DESPAIRING  TO  ATTAIN 

WHOSO  list  to  hunt?  I  know  where  is  an  hind! 
But  as  for  me,  alas!  I  may  no  more, 
The  vain  travail  hath  wearied  me  so  sore; 
I  am  of  them  that  furthest  come  behind. 
Yet  may  I  by  no  means  my  wearied  mind 
Draw  from  the  deer;  but  as  she  fleeth  afore 
Fainting  I  follow;  I  leave  off  therefore, 
Since  in  a  net  I  seek  to  hold  the  wind. 
Who  list  to  hunt,  I  put  him  out  of  doubt 
As  well  as  I,  may  spend  his  time  in  vain! 
And  graven  with  diamonds  in  letters  plain 
There  is  written  her  fair  neck  round  about; 
"Noli  me  tangere;  for  Caesar's  I  am, 
And  wild  for  to  hold,  though  I  seem  tame." 

Sir  Thomas  Wyato. 
1 


A  VOW  TO  LOVE  FAITHFULLY 

SET  me  whereas  the  sun  doth  parch  the  green, 
Or  where  his  beams  do  not  dissolve  the  ice; 
In  temperate  heat,  where  he  is  felt  and  seen; 
In  presence  prest  of  people,  mad  or  wise; 
Set  me  in  high,  or  yet  in  low  degree; 
In  longest  night,  or  in  the  shortest  day; 
In  clearest  sky,  or  where  clouds  thickest  be; 
In  lusty  youth,  or  when  my  hairs  are  gray: 
Set  me  in  heav'n,  in  earth,  or  else  in  hell, 
In  hill,  or  dale,  or  in  the  foaming  flood; 
Thrall,  or  at  large,  alive  whereso  I  dwell, 
Sick,  or  in  health,  in  evil  fame,  or  good, 
Hers  will  I  be;  and  only  with  this  thought 
Content  myself,  although  my  chance  be  nought 
Earl  of  Surrey 


DESCRIPTION  OF  SPRING 

THE  soote  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings 
With  green  hath  clad  the  hill,  and  eke  the  vale. 
The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings: 
The  turtle  to  her  mate  hath  told  her  tale. 
Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs, 
The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the  pale; 
The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coat  he  slings; 
The  fishes  flete  with  new  repaired  scale; 
The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  slings; 
The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies  smale; 
The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings; 
Winter  is  worn  that  was  the  flowers'  bale. 
And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant  things 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs! 

Earl  of  Surrey. 


AMORETTI 
XXII 

THIS  holy  season,  fit  to  fast  and  pray, 

Men  to  devotion  ought  to  be  inclined: 

Therefore,  I  likewise,  on  so  holy  day, 

For  my  sweet  Saint  some  service  fit  will  find. 

Her  temple  fair  is  built  within  my  mind, 

In  which  her  glorious  image  placed  is; 

On  which  my  thoughts  do  day  and  night  attend, 

Like  sacred  priests  that  never  think  amiss! 

There  I  to  her,  as  th'  author  of  my  bliss, 

Will  build  an  altar  to  appease  her  ire; 

And  on  the  same  my  heart  will  sacrifice, 

Burning  in  flames  of  pure  and  chaste  desire: 

The  which  vouchsafe,  O  goddess,  to  accept, 

Among  thy  dearest  relics  to  be  kept. 

Edmund  Spenser  (1552  ?-1599). 


XL 

MARK  when  she  smiles  with  amiable  cheer, 
And  tell  me  whereto  can  ye  liken  it; 
When  on  each  eyelid  sweetly  do  appear 
An  hundred  Graces  as  in  shade  to  sit, 
Likest  it  seemeth,  in  my  simple  wit, 
Unto  the  fair  sunshine  in  summer's  day; 
That,  when  a  dreadful  storm  away  is  flit, 
Through  the  broad  world  doth  spread  his  goodly  ray; 
At  sight  whereof,  each  bird  that  sits  on  spray, 
And  every  beast  that  to  his  den  was  fled, 
Comes  forth  afresh  out  of  their  late  dismay, 
And  to  the  light  lift  up  their  drooping  head. 
So  my  storm-beaten  heart  likewise  is  cheered 
With  that  sunshine,  when  cloudy  looks  are  cleared. 

Edmund  Spenser. 


LXVII 

LIKE  as  a  huntsman  after  weary  chase, 
Seeing  the  game  from  rum  escaped  away, 
Sits  down  to  rest  him  in  some  shady  place, 
With  panting  hounds  beguiled  of  their  prey: 
So,  after  long  pursuit  and  vain  assay, 
When  I  all  weary  had  the  chase  forsook, 
The  gentle  deer  returned  the  self-same  way, 
Thinking  to  quench  her  thirst  at  the  next  brook: 
There  she,  beholding  me  with  milder  look, 
Sought  not  to  fly,  but  fearless  still  did  bide; 
Till  I  in  hand  her  yet  half  trembling  took, 
And  with  her  own  good  will  her  firmly  tied. 
Strange  thing,  me  seemed,  to  see  a  beast  so  wild, 
So  goodly  won,  with  her  own  will  beguiled. 

Edmund  Spenser. 


LXVIII 

MOST  glorious  Lord  of  life!  that,  on  this  day, 

Didst  make  thy  triumph  over  death  and  sin; 

And,  having  harrowed  hell,  didst  bring  away 

Captivity  thence  captive,  us  to  win: 

This  joyous  day,  dear  Lord,  with  joy  begin; 

And  grant  that  we,  for  whom  thou  diddest  die, 

Being  with  thy  dear  blood  clean  washed  from  sin, 

May  live  forever  in  felicity; 

And  that  thy  love  we  weighing  worthily, 

May  likewise  love  thee  for  the  same  again; 

And  for  thy  sake,  that  all  like  dear  didst  buy, 

With  love  may  one  another  entertain! 

So  let  us  love,  dear  Love,  like  as  we  ought: 

Love  is  the  lesson  which  the  Lord  us  taught. 

Edmund  Spenser. 


LXXV 

ONE  day  I  wrote  her  name  upon  the  strand, 
But  came  the  waves,  and  washed  it  away: 
Again  I  wrote  it  with  a  second  hand; 
But  came  the  tide,  and  made  my  pains  his  pray. 

"Vain  man/'  said  she,  "that  dost  in  vain  essay 
A  mortal  thing  so  to  immortalize; 
For  I  myself  shall  like  to  this  decay, 
And  eek  my  name  be  wip&d  out  likewise." 

"Not  so,"  quod  I;  "let  baser  things  devise 
To  die  in  dust,  but  you  shall  live  by  fame: 
My  verse  your  virtues  rare  shall  eternize, 
And  in  the  heavens  write  your  glorious  name. 
Where,  whenas  death  shall  all  the  world  subdue, 
Our  love  shall  live,  and  later  life  renew." 

Edmund  Spenser. 


A  VISION  UPON  THE  CONCEIT  OF  THE 
FAERY  QUEEN 

METHOUGHT  I  saw  the  grave  where  Laura  lay, 
Within  that  Temple  where  the  vestal  flame 
Was  wont  to  burn;  and  passing  by  that  way 
To  see  that  buried  dust  of  living  fame, 
Whose  tomb  fan*  love,  and  faker  virtue  kept, 
All  suddenly  I  saw  the  Faery  Queen: 
At  whose  approach  the  soul  of  Petrarch  wept, 
And  from  thenceforth  those  graces  were  not  seen; 
For  they  this  Queen  attended,  in  whose  stead 
Oblivion  laid  him  down  on  Laura's  hearse. 
Hereat  the  hardest  stones  were  seen  to  bleed, 
And  groans  of  buried  ghosts  the  heavens  did  pierce: 
Where  Homer's  spright  did  tremble  all  for  grief, 
And  cursed  the  access  of  that  celestial  thief. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh  (1552V-1618). 


ASTROPHEL  AND  STELLA 
XXXI 

WITH  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon!  thou  climb'st  the  skies! 

How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face! 

What,  may  it  be  that  even  in  heavenly  place 

That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries! 

Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquainted  eyes 

Gan  judge  of  love,  thou  feeFst  a  lover's  case; 

I  read  it  hi  thy  looks:  thy  languished  grace, 

To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 

Then,  even  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me, 

Is  constant  love  deemed  there  but  want  of  wit? 

Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be? 

Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 

Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth  possess?  — 

Do  they  call  virtue  there  ungratefulness? 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  (1554-1586). 


XXXIX 

GOME  Sleep!  0  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
The  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low; 
With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  prease 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw: 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease; 

1  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed, 
A  chamber  deaf  of  noise  and  blind  of  light, 
A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head: 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  by  right, 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me, 
Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image  see. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

6 


XLI 

HAVING  this  day  my  horse,  my  hand,  my  lance 
Guided  so  well  that  I  obtained  the  prize, 
Both  by  the  judgment  of  the  English  eyes 
And  of  some  sent  from  that  sweet  enemy,  France; 
Horsemen  my  skill  in  horsemanship  advance; 
Town  folks  my  strength;  a  daintier  judge  applies 
His  praise  to  sleight,  which  from  good  use  doth  rise; 
Some  lucky  wits  impute  it  but  to  chance; 
Others,  because  of  both  sides  I  do  take 
My  blood  from  them  who  did  excel  in  this, 
Think  Nature  me  a  man-at-arms  did  make. 
How  far  they  shot  awry!  The  true  cause  is, 
Stella  looked  on;  and  from  her  heavenly  face 
Sent  forth  the  beams  which  made  so  fair  my  race. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


LEAVE  ME,  O  LOVE,  WHICH  REACHEST 
BUT  TO  DUST 

LEAVE  me,  0  Love,  which  reachest  but  to  dust, 
And  thou,  my  mind,  aspire  to  higher  things; 
Grow  rich  in  that  which  never  taketh  rust: 
Whatever  fades  but  fading  pleasure  brings. 
Draw  in  thy  beams,  and  humble  all  thy  might 
To  that  sweet  yoke  where  lasting  freedoms  be, 
Which  breaks  the  clouds  and  opens  forth  the  light 
That  doth  both  shine  and  give  us  sight  to  see. 
Oh,  take  fast  hold!  let  that  light  be  thy  guide 
In  this  small  course  which  birth  draws  out  to  death, 
And  think  how  evil  becometh  him  to  slide 
Who  seeketh  heaven,  and  comes  of  heavenly  breath. 
Then  farewell,  world;  thy  uttermost  I  see: 
Eternal  Love,  maintain  thy  Me  in  me. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


PHILLIS 
XXII 

FAIR  art  thou,  Phillis,  ay,  so  fair,  sweet  maid, 
As  nor  the  sun,  nor  I  have  seen  more  fair; 
For  in  thy  cheeks  sweet  roses  are  embayed, 
And  gold  more  pure  than  gold  doth  gild  thy  hair. 
Sweet  bees  have  hived  their  honey  on  thy  tongue, 
And  Hebe  spiced  her  nectar  with  thy  breath; 
About  thy  neck  do  all  the  graces  throng, 
And  lay  such  baits  as  might  entangle  death. 
In  such  a  breast  what  heart  would  not  be  thrall? 
From  such  sweet  arms  who  would  not  wish  embraces? 
At  thy  fair  hands  who  wonders  not  at  all 
Wonder  itself  through  ignorance  embases? 
Yet  natheless  though  wondrous  gifts  you  call  these, 
My  faith  is  far  more  wonderful  than  all  these. 
Thomas  Lodge  (1558  f -1 


WHAT  MEANT  THE  POETS  IN  INVECTIVE 
VERSE 

WHAT  meant  the  poets  in  invective  verse 

To  sing  Medea's  shame,  and  Scylla's  pride, 

Calypso's  charms  by  which  so  many  died? 

Only  for  this  their  vices  they  rehearse; 

That  curious  wits  which  in  the  world  converse, 

May  shun  the  dangers  and  enticing  shows 

Of  such  false  Sirens,  those  home-breeding  foes, 

That  from  their  eyes  their  venom  do  disperse. 

So  soon  kills  not  the  basilisk  with  sight; 

The  viper's  tooth  is  not  so  venomous; 

The  adder's  tongue  not  half  so  dangerous, 

As  they  that  bear  the  shadow  of  delight, 

Who  chain  blind  youths  in  trammels  of  their  hair, 

Till  waste  brings  woe,  and  sorrow  hastes  despair. 

Robert  Greene  (1 560  f - 

8 


DIANA 
IX 

MY  lady's  presence  makes  the  Roses  red, 
Because  to  see  her  lips  they  blush  for  shame. 
The  Lily's  leaves,  for  envy,  pale  became; 
And  her  white  hands  in  them  this  envy  bred. 
The  Marigold  abroad  her  leaves  doth  spread, 
Because  the  sun's  and  her  power  is  the  same. 
The  Violet  of  purple  colour  came, 
Dyed  with  the  blood  she  made  my  heart  to  shed. 
In  brief,  all  flowers  from  her  their  virtue  take; 
From  her  sweet  breath,  then*  sweet  smells  do  proceed; 
The  living  heat  which  her  eye-beams  do  make 
Warmeth  the  ground,  and  quickeneth  the  seed. 
The  ram  wherewith  she  watereth  these  flowers, 
Falls  from  mine  eyes,  which  she  dissolves  in  showers. 
Henry  Constable  (1562-1613). 


DELIA 


BEAUTY,  sweet  Love,  is  like  the  morning  dew, 
Whose  short  refresh  upon  the  tender  green 
Cheers  for  a  time  but  till  the  sun  doth  shew, 
And  straight 't  is  gone  as  it  had  never  been. 
Soon  doth  it  fade  that  makes  the  fairest  flourish, 
Short  is  the  glory  of  the  blushing  rose; 
The  hue  which  thou  so  carefully  dost  nourish, 
Yet  which  at  length  thou  must  be  forced  to  lose. 
When  thou,  surcharged  with  burthen  of  thy  years, 
Shalt  bend  thy  wrinkles  homeward  to  the  earth, 
And  that  in  Beauty's  lease,  expired,  appears 
The  date  of  Age,  the  calends  of  our  death,  — 
But  ah,  no  more!  —  this  must  not  be  foretold, 
For  women  grieve  to  think  they  must  be  old. 

Samuel  Daniel  (1562-1619). 

9 


CARE-CHARMER  SLEEP,  SON  OF  THE 
SABLE  NIGHT 

CARE-CHARMER  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night, 
Brother  to  Death,  in  silent  darkness  born, 
Relieve  my  languish,  and  restore  the  light; 
With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care  return, 
And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn 
The  shipwreck  of  my  ill-adventured  youth: 
Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  wail  their  scorn, 
Without  the  torment  of  the  night's  untruth. 
Cease,  dreams,  the  images  of  the  day-desires, 
To  model  forth  the  passions  of  the  morrow; 
Never  let  rising  Sun  approve  you  liars, 
To  add  more  grief  to  aggravate  my  sorrow: 
Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in  vain, 
And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  disdain. 

Samuel  Daniel. 


WERE  I  AS  BASE  AS  IS  THE  LOWLY  PLAIN 

WERE  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain, 
And  you,  my  Love,  as  high  as  heaven  above, 
Yet  should  the  thoughts  of  me  your  humble  swain 
Ascend  to  heaven  in  honour  of  my  Love. 
Were  I  as  high  as  heaven  above  the  plain, 
And  you,  my  Love,  as  humble  and  as  low 
As  are  the  deepest  bottoms  of  the  main, 
Whereso'er  you  were,  with  you  my  love  should  go. 
Were  you  the  earth,  dear  Love,  and  I  the  skies, 
My  love  should  shine  on  you  like  to  the  sun, 
And  look  upon  you  with  ten  thousand  eyes, 
Till  heaven  waxed  blind,  and  till  the  world  were  done. 
Whereso'er  I  am,  below  or  else  above  you, 
Whereso'er  you  are,  my  heart  shall  truly  love  you. 
Joshuah  Sylvester  (1563-1618). 

10 


IDEA 
IV 

BRIGHT  Star  of  Beauty!  on  whose  Eyelids  sit 

A  thousand  nymph-like  and  enamoured  Graces, 

The  Goddesses  of  Memory  and  Wit, 

Which  there  in  order  take  their  several  places. 

In  whose  dear  Bosom,  sweet  delicious  Love 

Lays  down  his  quiver,  which  he  once  did  bear, 

Since  he  that  blessed  Paradise  did  prove, 

And  leaves  his  mother's  lap  to  sport  him  there. 

Let  others  strive  to  entertain  with  words! 

My  soul  is  of  a  braver  metal  made: 

I  hold  that  vile  which  vulgar  wit  affords, 

In  me 's  that  faith  which  Time  cannot  invade! 

Let  what  I  praise  be  still  made  good  by  you 

Be  you  most  worthy,  whilst  I  am  most  true. 

Michael  Drayton  (1563-1681). 


LXXI 

SINCE  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part,  — 

Nay  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me: 

And  I  am  glad,  yea  glad  with  all  my  heart, 

That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free: 

Shake  hands  forever,  cancel  all  our  vows, 

And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 

Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 

That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 

Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  Love's  latest  breath, 

When,  his  pulse  failing,  Passion  speechless  lies, 

When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 

And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes,  — 

Now  if  thou  wouldst,  when  all  have  given  him  over, 

From  death  to  life  thou  mighst  him  yet  recover! 

Michael  Drayton* 

11 


SONNETS 
XVIII 

SHALL  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate: 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date: 
Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd; 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 
By  chance  or  nature's  changing  course  untrimm'd; 
But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade, 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest; 
Nor  shall  Death  brag  thou  wander'st  in  his  shade, 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  grow'st: 
So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  this  lives,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 

William  Shakespeare  (1564-1616). 


XXIX 

WHEN,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries, 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possessed, 
Desiring  this  man's  art  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least; 
Yet  in  these*thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  thee,  and  then  my  state, 
Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remember'd  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 

William  Shakespeare. 

12 


XXX 

WHEN  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 

I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste: 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unus'd  to  flow, 

For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 

And  weep  afresh  love's  long  since  cancell' d  woe, 

And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight: 

Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 

And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 

The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 

Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 

All  losses  are  restored  and  sorrows  end. 

William  Shakespeare. 


XXXIII 

FULL  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye, 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy; 
Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face, 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace: 
Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine 
With  all-triumphant  splendour  on  my  brow; 
But,  out,  alack!  he  was  but  one  hour  mine, 
The  region  cloud  hath  mask'd  him  from  me  now. 
Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdaineth; 
Suns  of  the  world  may  stain  when  heaven's  sun 
staineth. 

William  Shakespeare. 
13 


LV 

NOT  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 

Of  princes,  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rhyme? 

But  you  shall  shine  more  bright  in  these  contents 

Than  unswept  stone,  besmear'd  with  sluttish  time. 

When  wasteful  war  shall  statues  overturn, 

And  broils  root  out  the  work  of  masonry, 

Nor  Mars  his  sword  nor  war's  quick  fire  shall  burn 

The  living  record  of  your  memory. 

'Gainst  death  and  all-oblivious  enmity 

Shall  you  pace  forth;  your  praise  shall  still  find  room 

Even  in  the  eyes  of  all  posterity 

That  wear  this  world  out  to  the  ending  doom. 

So,  till  the  judgment  that  yourself  arise, 

You  live  in  this,  and  dwell  in  lovers'  eyes. 

William  Shakespeare. 


LXXI 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 
Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to  dwell: 
Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not 
The  hand  that  writ  it;  for  I  love  you  so, 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot, 
If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make  you  woe. 
O,  if,  I  say,  you  look  upon  this  verse 
When  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with  clay, 
Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  rehearse, 
But  let  your  love  even  with  my  life  decay; 
Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your  moan, 
And  mock  you  with  me  after  I  am  gone. 

William  Shakespeare. 
i 

14 


LXXIII 

THAT  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  behold 

When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 

Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 

Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 

In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 

As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west; 

Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 

Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 

In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire, 

That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 

As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 

Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourished  by. 

This  thou  perceivest,  which  makes  thy  love  more  strong, 

To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 

William  Shakespeare. 


xcvni 

FROM  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring, 

When  proud-pied  April,  dress'd  in  all  his  trim, 

Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  hi  every  thing, 

That  heavy  Saturn  laugh'd  and  leap'd  with  him. 

Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the  sweet  smell 

Of  different  flowers  in  odour  and  in  hue, 

Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell, 

Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where  they  grew: 

Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lily's  white, 

Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  hi  the  rose; 

They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight, 

Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all  those. 

Yet  seem'd  it  winter  still,  and,  you  away, 

As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these  did  play. 

William  Shakespeare. 

15 


CII 

MY  love  is  strengthen'd,  though  more  weak  in 

seeming; 

I  love  not  less,  though  less  the  show  appear: 
That  love  is  merchandized  whose  rich  esteeming 
The  owner's  tongue  doth  publish  every  where. 
Our  love  was  new,  and  then  but  in  the  spring, 
When  I  was  wont  to  greet  it  with  my  lays; 
As  Philomel  in  summer's  front  doth  sing, 
And  stops  her  pipe  in  growth  of  riper  days: 
Not  that  the  summer  is  less  pleasant  now 
Than  when  her  mournful  hymns  did  hush  the  night, 
But  that  wild  music  burthens  every  bough, 
And  sweets  grown  common  lose  their  dear  delight. 
Therefore,  like  her,  I  sometime  hold  my  tongue, 
Because  I  would  not  dull  you  with  my  song. 

William  Shakespeare. 

CVI 

WHEN  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 

I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 

And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme 

In  praise  of  ladies  dead  and  lovely  knights, 

Then,  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best, 

Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 

I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  expressed 

Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 

So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 

Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring; 

And,  for  they  look'd  but  with  divining  eyes, 

They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing: 

For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days, 

Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 

William  Shakespeare. 

16 


GXVI 

LET  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments.    Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove: 

0  no!  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark, 

That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 

Whose  worth 's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken. 

Love  's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come; 

Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 

But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 

If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 

1  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  lov'd. 

William  Shakespeare. 


CXXIX 

THE  expense  of  spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame 

Is  lust  in  action;  and  till  action,  lust 

Is  perjured,  murderous,  bloody,  full  of  blame, 

Savage,  extreme,  rude,  cruel,  not  to  trust; 

Enjoy 'd  no  sooner  but  despised  straight; 

Past  reason  hunted;  and  no  sooner  had, 

Past  reason  hated,  as  a  swallowed  bait, 

On  purpose  laid  to  make  the  taker  mad: 

Mad  in  pursuit,  and  in  possession  so; 

Had,  having,  and  in  quest  to  have,  extreme; 

A  bliss  in  proof,  and  proved,  a  very  woe; 

Before,  a  joy  proposed;  behind,  a  dream. 

All  this  the  world  well  knows;  yet  none  knows  well 

To  shun  the  heaven  that  leads  men  to  this  hell. 

William  Shakespeare. 

17 


AH,  SWEET  CONTENT!  WHERE  IS  THY 
MILD  ABODE? 

AH,  sweet  Content!  where  is  thy  mild  abode? 
Is  it  with  Shepherds  and  light-hearted  Swains, 
Which  sing  upon  the  downs,  and  pipe  abroad, 
Tending  their  flocks  and  cattle  on  the  plains? 
Ah,  sweet  Content!  where  dost  thou  safely  rest? 
In  heaven,  with  angels?  which  the  praises  sing 
Of  Him  that  made,  and  rules  at  His  behest, 
The  minds  and  hearts  of  every  living  thing. 
Ah,  sweet  Content!  where  doth  thine  harbour  hold? 
Is  it  in  churches  with  religious  men, 
Which  please  the  gods  with  prayers  manifold, 
And  in  their  studies  meditate  it  then? 
Whether  thou  dost  in  heaven  or  earth  appear, 
Be  where  thou  wilt,  thou  will  not  harbour  here! 

Barnabe  Barnes  (1569? -1609). 


AT  THE  ROUND  EARTH'S  IMAGINED 
CORNERS  BLOW 

AT  the  round  earth's  imagined  corners  blow 

Your  trumpets,  Angels,  and  arise,  arise, 

From  death,  you  numberless  infinities 

Of  souls,  and  to  your  scattered  bodies  go, 

All  whom  the  Flood  did,  and  Fire  shall,  overthrow, 

All  whom  war,  dearth,  age,  agues,  tyrannies, 

Despair,  law,  chance,  hath  slain,  and  you  whose  eyes 

Shall  behold  God,  and  never  taste  death's  woe. 

But  let  them  sleep,  Lord,  and  me  mourn  a  space; 

For,  if  above  all  these,  my  sins  abound 

'T  is  late  to  ask  abundance  of  Thy  grace, 

When  we  are  there.  Here  on  this  lowly  ground 

Teach  me  how  to  repent;  for  that's  as  good 

As  if  Thou'dst  sealed  my  pardon  with  thy  blood. 

John  Donne  (1573-1631). 
18 


DEATH,  BE  NOT  PROUD,  THOUGH  SOME 
HAVE  CALLED  THEE 

DEATH,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have  called  thee 

Mighty  and  dreadful,  for  thou  art  not  so; 

For  those  whom  thou  think'st  thou  dost  overthrow 

Die  not,  poor  Death;  nor  yet  canst  thou  kill  me. 

From  rest  and  sleep,  which  but  thy  pictures  be, 

Much  pleasure;  then  from  thee,  much  more  must  flow: 

And  soonest  our  best  men  do  with  thee  go; 

Rest  of  their  bones  and  soul's  delivery! 

Thou  art  slave  to  Fate,  Chance,  Kings,  and  desperate 

men, 

And  dost  with  poison,  war,  and  sickness  dwell, 
And  poppy  or  charmes  can  make  us  sleep  as  well, 
And  better  than  thy  stroke;  why  swell'st  thou  then? 
One  short  sleep  past,  we  wake  eternally, 
And  Death  shall  be  no  more:  Death,  thou  shalt  die. 

John  Donne. 


I  KNOW  THAT  ALL  BENEATH  THE  MOON 
DECAYS 

I  KNOW  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays, 
And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  is  brought, 
In  Time's  great  periods  shall  return  to  nought; 
That  fairest  states  have  fatal  nights  and  days; 
I  know  how  all  the  Muse's  heavenly  lays, 
With  toil  of  spright  which  are  so  dearly  bought, 
As  idle  sounds,  of  few  or  none  are  sought, 
And  that  nought  lighter  is  than  airy  praise; 
I  know  frail  beauty  ;s  like  the  purple  flower, 
To  which  one  morn  oft  birth  and  death  affords; 
That  love  a  jarring  is  of  minds'  accords, 
Where  sense  and  will  invasal  reason's  power: 
Know  what  I  list,  this  all  cannot  me  move, 
But  that,  0  me!  I  both  must  write  and  love* 

William  Drummond  (1585-1649). 
19 


DEAR  WOOD,  AND  YOU,  SWEET  SOLITARY 
PLACE 

DEAR  wood,  and  you,  sweet  solitary  place, 
Where  from  the  vulgar  I  estranged  live, 
Contented  more  with  what  your  shades  me  give, 
Than  if  I  had  what  Thetis  doth  embrace; 
What  snaky  eye,  grown  jealous  of  my  peace, 
Now  from  your  silent  horrors  would  me  drive, 
When  Sun,  progressing  in  his  glorious  race 
Beyond  the  Twins,  doth  near  our  pole  arrive? 
What  sweet  delight  a  quiet  life  affords, 
And  what  is  it  to  be  of  bondage  free, 
Far  from  the  madding  worldling's  hoarse  discords, 
Sweet  flowery  place  I  first  did  learn  of  thee: 
Ah!  if  I  were  mine  own,  your  dear  resorts 
I  would  not  change  with  princes'  stately  courts. 

William  Drummond. 


ALEXIS,   HERE  SHE  STAYED;  AMONG 
THESE  PINES 

ALEXIS,  here  she  stayed;  among  these  pines, 

Sweet  hermitress,  she  did  alone  repair; 

Here  did  she  spread  the  treasure  of  her  hah-, 

More  rich  than  that  brought  from  the  Colchian  mines; 

She  set  her  by  these  musked  eglantines, 

The  happy  place  the  print  seems  yet  to  bear; 

Her  voice  did  sweeten  here  thy  sugared  lines, 

To  which  winds,  trees,  beasts,  birds,  did  lend  their  ear; 

Me  here  she  first  perceived,  and  here  a  morn 

Of  bright  carnations  did  overspread  her  face; 

Here  did  she  sigh,  here  first  my  hopes  were  born, 

And  I  first  got  a  pledge  of  promised  grace; 

But  ah!  what  served  it  to  be  happy  so 

Sith  passed  pleasures  double  but  new  woe? 

William  Drummond. 
20 


A  ROSE,  AS  FAIR   AS   EVER  SAW  THE 
NORTH 

A  ROSE,  as  fair  as  ever  saw  the  North, 
Grew  in  a  little  garden  all  alone: 
A  sweeter  flower  did  Nature  ne'er  put  forth, 
Nor  fairer  garden  yet  was  never  known. 
The  maidens  danced  about  it  morn  and  noon, 
And  learned  bards  of  it  their  ditties  made; 
The  nimble  fairies,  by  the  pale-faced  moon, 
Watered  the  root,  and  kissed  her  pretty  shade. 
But,  welladay!  the  gardener  careless  grew, 
The  maids  and  fairies  both  were  kept  away, 
And  in  a  drought  the  caterpillars  threw 
Themselves  upon  the  bud  and  every  spray. 
God  shield  the  stock!  If  heaven  send  no  supplies, 
The  fairest  blossom  of  the  garden  dies. 

William  Browne  (1591-1643  ?). 


SIN 

LORD,  with  what  care  hast  Thou  begirt  us  round! 
Parents  first  season  us:  then  schoolmasters 
Deliver  us  to  laws;  they  send  us  bound 
To  rules  of  reason,  holy  messengers, 
Pulpits  and  Sundays,  sorrow  dogging  sin, 
Afflictions  sorted,  anguish  of  all  sizes, 
Fine  nets  and  strategems  to  catch  us  in, 
Bibles  laid  open,  millions  of  surprises, 
Blessings  beforehand,  ties  of  gratefulness, 
The  sound  of  glory  ringing  in  our  ears; 
Without,  our  shame;  within,  our  consciences; 
Angels  and  grace,  eternal  hopes  and  fears. 
Yet  all  these  fences  and  their  whole  array 
One  cunning  bosom-sin  blows  quite  away. 

George  Herbert  (1593-163$). 
21 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE 

O  NIGHTINGALE,  that  on  yon  bloomy  spray 
Warblest  at  eve,  when  all  the  woods  are  still, 
Thou  with  fresh  hope  the  Lover's  heart  dost  fill, 
While  the  jolly  Hours  lead  on  propitious  May. 
Thy  liquid  notes  that  close  the  eye  of  Day, 
First  heard  before  the  shallow  cuckoo's  bill, 
Portend  success  in  love.  0!  if  Jove's  will 
Have  linked  that  amorous  power  to  thy  soft  lay, 
Now  timely  sing,  ere  the  rude  bird  of  hate 
Foretell  my  hopeless  doom,  in  some  grove  nigh; 
As  thou  from  year  to  year  hast  sung  too  late 
For  my  relief,  yet  had'st  no  reason  why. 
Whether  the  Muse  or  Love  call  thee  his  mate, 
Both  them  I  serve,  and  of  their  train  am  I. 

John  Milton  (1608-1674). 


TO  THE  LORD  GENERAL  FAIRFAX  AT  THE 
SIEGE  OF  COLCHESTER 

FAIRFAX,  whose  name  in  arms  through  Europe  rings, 
Filling  each  mouth  with  envy  or  with  praise, 
And  all  her  jealous  monarchs  with  amaze, 
And  rumours  loud  that  daunt  remotest  kings, 
Thy  firm  unshaken  virtue  ever  brings 
Victory  home,  though  new  rebellions  raise 
Their  Hydra  heads,  and  the  false  North  displays 
Her  broken  league  to  imp  their  serpent  wings. 
O,  yet  a  nobler  task  awaits  thy  hand 
For  what  can  war  but  endless  war  still  breed? 
Till  truth  and  right  from  violence  be  freed, 
And  public  faith  clear'd  from  the  shameful  brand 
Of  public  fraud.  In  vain  doth  Valour  bleed, 
While  Avarice  and  Rapine  share  the  land. 

John  Milton. 


22 


ON  THE  LATE  MASSACRE  IN  PIEMONT 

AVENGE,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  Saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold; 
Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old, 
When  all  our  fathers  worshiped  stocks  and  stones, 
Forget  not:  in  thy  book  record  then*  groans 
Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piemontese,  that  rolled 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.  Their  moans 
The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 
To  heaven.  Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes  sow 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 
The  triple  Tyrant;  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundredfold,  who,  having  learnt  thy  way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 

John  Milton. 


ON  HIS  BLINDNESS 

WHEN  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 
Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  Talent  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  He  returning  chide, 
"Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied?" 
I  fondly  ask.   But  Patience,  to  prevent 
That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work,  or  his  own  gifts.  Who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best.   His  state 
Is  kingly:  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

John  Milton. 


ON  HIS  DECEASED  WIFE 

METHOUGHT  I  saw  my  late  espoused  saint 
Brought  to  me  like  Alcestis  from  the  grave, 
Whom  Jove's  great  son  to  her  glad  husband  gave, 
Rescued  from  Death  by  force,  though  pale  and  faint. 
Mine,  as  whom  washed  from  spot  of  child-bed  taint 
Purification  in  the  Old  Law  did  save, 
And  such  as  yet  once  more  I  trust  to  have 
Full  sight  of  her  in  Heaven  without  restraint, 
Came  vested  all  in  white,  pure  as  her  mind. 
Her  face  was  veiled;  yet  to  my  fancied  sight 
Love,  sweetness,  goodness,  in  her  person  shined 
So  clear  as  in  no  face  with  more  delight. 
But,  oh!  as  to  embrace  me  she  inclined, 
I  waked,  she  fled,  and  day  brought  back  my  night. 

John  Milton. 


TO  THE  LORD  GENERAL  CROMWELL 

ON  THE  PROPOSALS  OF  CERTAIN  MINISTERS  AT  THE  COMMITTEE 
FOR  PROPAGATION  OF  THE   GOSPEL 

CROMWELL,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a  cloud 

Not  of  war  only,  but  detractions  rude, 

Guided  by  faith  and  matchless  fortitude, 

To  peace  and  truth  thy  glorious  way  hast  ploughed, 

And  on  the  neck  of  crowned  Fortune  proud 

Hast  reared  God's  trophies,  and  his  work  pursued, 

While  Darwen  stream,  with  blood  of  Scots  imbrued, 

And  Dunbar  field,  resounds  thy  praises  loud, 

And  Worcester's  laureate  wreath:  yet  much  remains 

To  conquer  still;  Peace  hath  her  victories 

No  less  renowned  than  War:  new  foes  arise, 

Threatening  to  bind  our  souls  with  secular  chains. 

Help  us  to  save  free  conscience  from  the  paw 

Of  hireling  wolves,  whose  Gospel  is  their  maw. 

John  MiUon. 
24 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR.  RICHARD  WEST 

IN  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine, 
And  reddening  Phoebus  lifts  his  golden  fire; 
The  birds  in  vain  then*  amorous  descant  join, 
Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  green  attire: 
These  ears,  alas!  for  other  notes  repine, 
A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require; 
My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine, 
And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire. 
Yet  morning  smiles  the  busy  race  to  cheer, 
And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier  men: 
The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tribute  bear; 
To  warm  their  little  loves  the  birds  complain: 
I  fruitless  mourn  to  him  that  cannot  hear, 
And  weep  the  more  because  I  weep  in  vain. 

Thomas  Gray  (1716-1771). 


ON  KING  ARTHUR'S  ROUND  TABLE  AT 
WINCHESTER 

WHERE  Venta's  Norman  castle  still  uprears 
Its  raftered  hall,  that  o'er  the  grassy  f oss 
And  scattered  flinty  fragments  clad  in  moss, 
On  yonder  steep  in  naked  state  appears; 
High-hung  remains,  the  pride  of  warlike  years, 
Old  Arthur's  board:  on  the  capacious  round 
Some  British  pen  has  sketched  the  names  renowned, 
In  marks  obscure,  of  his  immortal  peers. 
Though  joined  with  magic  skill,  with  many  a  rime, 
The  Druid  frame,  unhonoured,  falls  a  prey 
To  the  slow  vengeance  of  the  wizard  Time, 
And  fade  the  British  characters  away; 
Yet  Spenser's  page,  that  chaunts  in  verse  sublime 
Those  Chiefs,  shall  live,  unconscious  of  decay. 

Thomas  Warton  (1728-1790). 

25 


TO  MRS.  UNWIN 

MARY!  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings, 
Such  aid  from  heaven  as  some  have  feigned  they  drew, 
An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals,  new 
And  undebased  by  praise  of  meaner  things; 
That,  ere  through  age  or  woe  I  shed  my  wings, 
I  may  record  thy  worth  with  honour  due, 
In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true, 
And  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings. 
But  thou  hast  little  need.  There  is  a  Book 
By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heavenly  light, 
On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look, 
A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright; 
There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  Mary,  shine, 
And,  since  thou  own'st  that  praise,  I  spare  thee  mine. 
William  Cowper  (1731-1800). 


WRITTEN  AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  SPRING 

THE  garlands  fade  that  Spring  so  lately  wove, 

Each  simple  flower,  which  she  had  nursed  in  dew, 

Anemonies,  that  spangled  every  grove, 

The  primrose  wan,  and  harebell  mildly  blue. 

No  more  shall  violets  linger  in  the  dell, 

Or  purple  orchis  variegate  the  plain, 

Till  Spring  again  shall  call  forth  every  bell, 

And  dress  with  humid  hands  her  wreaths  again. 

Ah,  poor  humanity!  so  frail,  so  fair 

Are  the  fond  visions  of  thy  early  day, 

Till  tyrant  passion  and  corrosive  care, 

Bid  all  thy  fairy  colours  fade  away. 

Another  May  new  buds  and  flowers  shall  bring: 

Ah!  why  has  happiness  no  second  Spring? 

Charlotte  Smith  (1749-1806). 

26 


OSTEND:  ON  HEARING  THE  BELLS  AT  SEA 

How  sweet  the  tuneful  bells'  responsive  peal! 
As  when,  at  opening  dawn,  the  fragrant  breeze 
Touches  the  trembling  sense  of  pale  desease, 
So  piercing  to  my  heart  their  force  I  feel! 
And  hark!  with  lessening  cadence  now  they  fall! 
And  now,  along  the  white  and  level  tide, 
They  fling  their  melancholy  music  wide; 
Bidding  me  many  a  tender  thought  recall 
Of  summer  days,  and  those  delightful  years 
When  from  an  ancient  tower,  in  life's  fair  prime, 
The  mournful  magic  of  their  mingling  chime 
First  waked  my  wondering  childhood  into  tears! 
But  seeming  now,  when  all  those  days  are  o'er, 
The  sound  of  joy  once  heard,  and  heard  no  more. 
William  Lisle  Bowles  (1762-1850). 


O  TIME!  WHO  KNOW'ST  A  LENIENT 
HAND  TO  LAY 

0  TIME!  who  know'st  a  lenient  hand  to  lay 
Softest  on  sorrow's  wound,  and  slowly  thence, 
Lulling  to  sad  repose  the  weary  sense, 

The  faint  pang  stealest  unperceived  away; 
On  thee  I  rest  my  only  hope  at  last, 
And  think,  when  thou  hast  dried  the  bitter  tear 
That  flows  in  vain  o'er  all  my  soul  held  dear, 

1  may  look  back  on  every  sorrow  past, 

And  meet  life's  peaceful  evening  with  a  smile;  — 
As  some  lone  bird,  at  day's  departing  hour, 
Sings  in  the  sunbeam,  of  the  transient  shower 
Forgetful,  though  its  wings  are  wet  the  while:  — 
Yet  ah!  how  much  must  that  poor  heart  endure, 
Which  hopes  from  thee,  and  thee  alone,  a  cure! 

William  Lisle  Bowks. 


27 


COMPOSED  UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE 
SEPTEMBER  3,  1802 

EARTH  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair: 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 
This  City  now  doth,  like  a  garment,  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning;  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky; 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendour,  valley,  rock,  or  hill; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will: 
Dear  God!  the  very  houses  seem  asleep; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still! 

William  Wordsworth  (1770-1850). 


WRITTEN  IN  LONDON 

SEPTEMBER,  1802 

O  FRIEND!  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look 

For  comfort,  being,  as  I  am,  opprest, 

To  think  that  now  our  Me  is  only  drest 

For  show;  mean  handy-work  of  craftsman,  cook, 

Or  groom!  —  We  must  run  glittering  like  a  brook 

In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest: 

The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best: 

No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  book 

Delights  us.  Rapine,  avarice,  expense, 

This  is  idolatry;  and  these  we  adore: 

Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more: 

The  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause 

Is  gone;  our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence, 

And  pure  religion  breathing  household  laws. 

William  Wordsworth. 
28 


LONDON,   1802 

MILTON!  thou  should'st  be  living  at  this  hour: 

England  hath  need  of  thee:  she  is  a  fen 

Of  stagnant  waters:  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 

Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 

Of  inward  happiness.  We  are  selfish  men; 

Oh!  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again; 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart: 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea: 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 

In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 

The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

William  Wordsworth. 


IT  IS  A  BEAUTEOUS  EVENING,  CALM  AND 
FREE 

IT  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free, 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 

Breathless  with  adoration;  the  broad  sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the  Sea: 

Listen!  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 

A  sound  like  thunder  —  everlastingly. 

Dear  Child!  dear  Girl!  that  walkest  with  me  here, 

If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn  thought, 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine: 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year; 

And  worship'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 

God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

William  Wordsworth. 
29 


THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US 
LATE  AND  SOON 

THE  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers: 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon! 
The  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not.  —  Great  God!  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

William  Wordsworth. 


THOUGHT  OF  A  BRITON  ON  THE 
SUBJUGATION  OF  SWITZERLAND 

Two  Voices  are  there;  one  is  of  the  sea, 

One  of  the  mountains;  each  a  mighty  Voice: 

In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  rejoice, 

They  were  thy  chosen  music,  Liberty! 

There  came  a  Tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee 

Thou  fought'st  against  him;  but  hast  vainly  striven: 

Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art  driven, 

Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 

Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft: 

Then  cleave,  O  cleave  to  that  which  still  is  left; 

For,  high-souled  Maid,  what  sorrow  would  it  be 

That  Mountain  floods  should  thunder  as  before, 

And  Ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore, 

And  neither  awful  Voice  be  heard  by  thee! 

William  Wordsworth. 
30 


SCORN  NOT  THE  SONNET;  CRITIC,  YOU 
HAVE  FROWNED 

SCORN  not  the  sonnet;  Critic,  you  have  frowned, 
Mindless  of  its  just  honours;  with  this  key 
Shakespeare  unlocked  his  heart;  the  melody 
Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch's  wound; 
A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound; 
With  it  Camoens  soothed  an  exile's  grief; 
The  Sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle  leaf 
Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  crowned 
His  visionary  brow;  a  glow-worm  lamp 
It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  Faery-land 
To  struggle  through  dark  ways;  and  when  a  damp 
Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 
The  Thing  became  a  trumpet;  whence  he  blew 
Soul-animating  strains  —  alas,  too  few! 

William  Wordsworth. 


SURPRISED  BY  JOY 

SURPRISED  by  joy  —  impatient  as  the  Wind 

I  turned  to  share  the  transport  —  Oh!  with  whom 

But  Thee,  deep  buried  in  the  silent  tomb, 

That  spot  which  no  vicissitude  can  find? 

Love,  faithful  love,  recalled  thee  to  my  mind  — 

But  how  could  I  forget  thee?  Through  what  power, 

Even  for  the  least  division  of  an  hour, 

Have  I  been  so  beguiled  as  to  be  blind 

To  my  most  grievous  loss?  —  That  thought's  return 

Was  the  worst  pang  that  sorrow  ever  bore, 

Save  one,  one  only,  when  I  stood  forlorn, 

Knowing  my  heart's  best  treasure  was  no  more; 

That  neither  present  time,  nor  years  unborn 

Could  to  my  sight  that  heavenly  face  restore. 

William  Wordsworth. 
31 


MOST  SWEET  IT  IS  WITH  UNUPLIFTED  EYES 

MOST  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 

To  pace  the  ground,  if  path  be  there  or  none, 

While  a  fair  region  round  the  traveller  lies 

Which  he  forbears  again  to  look  upon; 

Pleased  rather  with  some  soft  ideal  scene, 

The  work  of  Fancy,  or  some  happy  tone 

Of  meditation,  slipping  in  between 

The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 

If  Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that  day 

Let  us  break  off  all  commerce  with  the  Muse: 

With  Thought  and  Love  companions  of  our  way, 

Whatever  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse, 

The  Mind's  internal  heaven  shall  shed  her  dews 

Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay. 

William  Wordsworth. 


TO  NATURE 

IT  may  indeed  be  phantasy  when  I 

Essay  to  draw  from  all  created  things 

Deep,  heartfelt,  inward  joy  that  closely  clings; 

And  trace  in  leaves  and  flowers  that  round  me  lie 

Lessons  of  love  and  earnest  piety. 

So  let  it  be;  and  if  the  wide  world  rings 

In  mock  of  this  belief,  to  me  it  brings 

Nor  fear,  nor  grief,  nor  vain  perplexity. 

So  will  I  build  my  altar  in  the  fields, 

And  the  blue  sky  my  fretted  dome  shall  be, 

And  the  sweet  fragrance  that  the  wild  flower  yields 

Shall  be  the  incense  I  will  yield  to  Thee, 

Thee  only  God!  and  Thou  shalt  not  despise 

Even  me,  the  priest  of  this  poor  sacrifice. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  (1772-1834). 


32 


A  WRINKLED,  CRABBED  MAN~THEY^ 
PICTURE  THEE 

A  WRINKLED,  crabbed  man  they  picture  thee, 

Old  Winter,  with  a  rugged  beard  as  gray 

As  the  long  moss  upon  the  apple-tree; 

Blue-lipped,  an  ice-drop  at  thy  sharp  blue  nose, 

Close  muffled  up,  and  on  thy  dreary  way 

Plodding  along  through  sleet  and  drifting  snows. 

They  should  have  drawn  thee  by  the  high-heapt  hearth, 

Old  Winter!  seated  in  thy  great  arm-chair, 

Watching  the  children  at  their  Christmas  mirth; 

Or  circled  by  them  as  thy  lips  declare 

Some  merry  jest  or  tale  of  murder  dire, 

Or  troubled  spirit  that  disturbs  the  night, 

Pausing  at  times  to  rouse  the  mouldering  fire, 

Or  taste  the  old  October  brown  and  bright. 

Robert  Southey  (1774-1848). 


NIGHT  AND  DEATH 

MYSTERIOUS  Night!  when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue? 
Yet  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus  with  the  host  of  heaven  came, 
And  lo!  Creation  widened  in  man's  view. 
Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 
Within  thy  beams,  O  Sun!  or  who  could  find, 
Whilst  fly,  and  leaf,  and  insect  stood  revealed, 
That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind? 
Why  do  we  then  shun  death  with  anxious  strife! 
If  light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  life? 

Joseph  Blanco  White  (1775-1841). 

33 


TO  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  CRICKET 

GREEN  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass, 

Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June, 

Sole  voice  that 's  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon, 

When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass; 

And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 

With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon, 

Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 

Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass; 

Oh  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong, 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth, 

Both  have  your  sunshine;  both,  though  small,  are  strong 

At  your  clear  hearts;  and  both  seem  given  to  earth 

To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song: 

In  doors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  Mirth. 

Leigh  Hunt  (1784-1859). 


WHAT  ART  THOU,  MIGHTY  ONE!  AND 
WHERE  THY  SEAT? 

WHAT  art  thou,  Mighty  One!  and  where  thy  seat  ? 
Thou  broodest  on  the  calm  that  cheers  the  lands, 
And  thou  dost  bear  within  thine  awful  hands 
The  rolling  thunders  and  the  lightnings  fleet; 
Stern  on  thy  dark-wrought  car  of  cloud  and  wind, 
Thou  guid'st  the  northern  storm  at  night's  dead  noon, 
Or,  on  the  red  wing  of  the  fierce  monsoon, 
Disturb 'st  the  sleeping  giant  of  the  Ind. 
In  the  drear  silence  of  the  polar  span 
Dost  thou  repose?  or  in  the  solitude 
Of  sultry  tracts,  where  the  lone  caravan 
Hears  nightly  howl  the  tiger's  hungry  brood? 
Vain  thought!  the  confines  of  his  throne  to  trace, 
Who  glows  through  all  the  fields  of  boundless  space! 

Henry  Kirke  White  (1785-1806). 

34 


ON  CHILLON 

ETERNAL  spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind! 
Bright  in  dungeons,  Liberty!  thou  art, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart  — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consigned  — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 
Chillon!  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 
And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar;  foi;  't  was  trod, 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 
Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavements  were  a  sod, 
By  Bonnivard!  May  none  those  marks  efface! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 

Lord  Byron  (1788-1824). 


THE  ROCK  OF  CASHEL 

ROYAL  and  saintly  Cashel!  I  would  gaze 

Upon  the  wreck  of  thy  departed  powers 

Not  in  the  dewy  light  of  matin  hours, 

Nor  the  meridian  pomp  of  summer's  blaze, 

But  at  the  close  of  dim  autumnal  days, 

When  the  sun's  parting  glance,  through  slanting  showers, 

Sheds  o'er  thy  rock-throned  battlements  and  towers 

Such  awful  gleams  as  brighten  o'er  Decay's 

Prophetic  cheek.  At  such  a  time,  methinks, 

There  breathes  from  thy  lone  courts  and  voiceless  aisles 

A  melancholy  moral;  such  as  sinks 

On  the  lone  traveller's  heart,  amid  the  piles 

Of  vast  Persepolis  on  her  mountain-stand, 

Or  Thebes  half  buried  in  the  desert  sand. 

Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere  (1788-1846). 

35 


SOME  LAWS  THERE  ARE  TOO  SACRED  FOR 
THE  HAND 

SOME  laws  there  are  too  sacred  for  the  hand 
Of  man  to  approach;  recorded  in  the  blood 
Of  patriots;  before  which,  as  the  Rood 
Of  Faith,  devotional  we  take  our  stand. 
Time-hallowed  laws!  magnificently  planned 
When  Freedom  was  the  nurse  of  public  good, 
And  Power,  paternal:  laws  that  have  withstood 
All  storms  —  unshaken  bulwarks  of  the  land! 
Free  will,  frank  speech,  an  undissembling  mind, 
Without  which  Freedom  dies  and  laws  are  vain, 
On  such  we  found  our  rights,  to  such  we  cling: 
In  these  shall  Power  her  surest  safeguard  find. 
Tread  them  not  down  in  passion  or  disdain: 
Make  Man  a  reptile,  he  will  turn  and  sting. 

Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere. 


THE  AFTERMATH 

IT  was  late  summer,  and  the  grass  again 

Had  grown  knee-deep,  —  we  stood,  my  love  and  I, 

Awhile  in  silence  where  the  stream  runs  by; 

Idly  we  listened  to  a  plaintive  strain,  — 

A  young  maid  singing  to  her  youthful  swain,  — 

Ah  me,  dead  days  remembered  make  us  sigh, 

And  tears  will  sometimes  flow  we  know  not  why; 

//  spring  be  past,  I  said,  shall  love  remain? 

She  moved  aside,  yet  soon  she  answered  me, 

Turning  her  gaze  responsive  to  mine  own,  — 

Spring  days  are  gone,  and  yet  the  grass,  we  see 

Unto  a  goodly  height  again  hath  grown; 

Dear  love,  just  so  love's  aftermath  may  be 

A  richer  growth  than  e'er  spring  days  have  known. 

Samuel  Waddington  (1790-1812). 


36 


OZYMANDIAS 

MET  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land  ** 
«£-  Who  said:  "Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone  *' 
0^  Stand  in  the  desert."  Near  them,  on  the  sand/*' 
«4~Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown,  ^ 
j^  And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  command,  f 
c^Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read  £- 
£,  Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  lifeless  things, 
^  The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart  that  fed 
i^  And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear  — fe 
JL~  'My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings: 
4^  Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair? 
Nothing  beside  remains.    Round  the  decay  <$ 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare  . 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away."«L 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  (1792-1822). 


THE  RETURN  TO  POETRY 

ONCE  more  the  eternal  melodies  from  far 

Woo  me  like  songs  of  home:  once  more  discerning, 

Through  fitful  clouds,  the  pure  majestic  star 

Above  the  poet's  world  serenely  burning, 

Thither  my  soul,  fresh-winged  by  love,  is  turning, 

As  o'er  the  waves  the  wood-bird  seeks  her  nest, 

For  those  green  heights  of  dewy  stillness  yearning, 

Whence  glorious  minds  o'erlook  this  earth's  unrest. 

Now  be  the  spirit  of  heaven's  truth  my  guide 

Through  the  bright  land!  —  that  no  brief  gladness,  found 

In  passing  bloom,  rich  odour,  or  sweet  sound, 

May  lure  my  footsteps  from  their  aim  aside: 

Their  true,  high  quest  —  to  seek,  if  ne'er  to  gain, 

The  inmost,  purest  shrine  of  that  august  domain. 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans  (1793-1835). 


37 


IN  HILLY-WOOD 

How  sweet  to  be  thus  nestling  deep  in  boughs, 

Upon  an  ashen  stoven  pillowing  me; 

Faintly  are  heard  the  plowmen  at  their  plows, 

But  not  an  eye  can  find  its  way  to  see. 

The  sunbeams  scarce  molest  me  with  a  smile, 

So  thick  the  leafy  armies  gather  round; 

But  where  they  do,  the  breeze  blows  cool  the  while, 

Their  leafy  shadows  dancing  on  the  ground. 

Full  many  a  flower,  too,  wishing  to  be  seen, 

Perks  up  its  head  the  hiding  grass  between,  — 

In  mid- wood  silence,  thus,  how  sweet  to  be; 

Where  all  the  noises,  that  on  peace  intrude, 

Come  from  the  chittering  cricket,  bird,  and  bee, 

Whose  songs  have  charms  to  sweeten  solitude. 

John  Clare  (1793-1864). 


ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S 
HOMER 

MUCH  have  I  travelPd  in  the  realms  of  gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen; 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 
That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne; 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold: 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific  —  and  all  his  men 
Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise  — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

John  Keats  (1795-1821). 
38 


TO  ONE  WHO  HAS  BEEN  LONG  IN 
CITY  PENT 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 
'T  is  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  fair 
And  open  face  of  heaven,  —  to  breathe  a  prayer 
Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 
Who  is  more  happy,  when,  with  heart's  content, 
Fatigued  he  sinks  into  some  pleasant  lair 
Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 
And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  languishment? 
Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 
Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel,  —  an  eye 
Watching  the  sailing  cloudlet's  bright  career, 
He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided  by, 
E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 
That  falls  through  the  clear  ether  silently. 

John  Keats. 


ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  CRICKET 

THE  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead: 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 

And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead; 

That  is  the  Grasshopper's  —  he  takes  the  lead 

In  summer  luxury,  —  he  has  never  done 

With  his  delights,  for  when  tired  out  with  fun, 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never: 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 

And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 

The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 

John  Keats. 


TO  SLEEP 

O  SOFT  embalmer  of  the  still  midnight! 

Shutting,  with  careful  fingers  and  benign, 

Our  gloom-pleased  eyes,  embowered  from  the  light, 

Enshaded  in  forgetfulness  divine; 

O  soothest  Sleep!  if  so  it  please  thee,  close, 

In  midst  of  this  thine  hymn,  my  willing  eyes, 

Or  wait  the  amen,  ere  thy  poppy  throws 

Around  my  bed  its  lulling  charities; 

Then  save  me,  or  the  passed  day  will  shine 

Upon  my  pillow,  breeding  many  woes; 

Save  me  from  curious  conscience,  that  still  lords 

Its  strength  for  darkness,  burrowing  like  a  mole; 

Turn  the  key  deftly  in  the  oiled  wards, 

And  seal  the  hushed  casket  of  my  soul. 

John  Keats. 


BRIGHT  STAR,  WOULD  I  WERE  STEADFAST 
AS  THOU  ART! 

BRIGHT  star,  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art! 

Not  in  lone  splendour  hung  aloft  the  night 

And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 

Like  Nature's  patient,  sleepless  Eremite, 

The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, 

Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft-fallen  mask 

Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors: 

No  —  yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeable, 

Pillow' d  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening  breast, 

To  feel  forever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 

Awake  forever  in  a  sweet  unrest, 

Still,  still,  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 

And  so  live  ever  —  or  else  swoon  to  death. 

John  Keats. 


40 


IF  I  HAVE  SINNED  IN  ACT,  I  MAY  REPENT 

IF  I  have  sinned  in  act,  I  may  repent; 

If  I  have  erred  in  thought,  I  may  disclaim 

My  silent  error,  and  yet  feel  no  shame; 

But  if  my  soul,  big  with  an  ill  intent, 

Guilty  in  will,  by  fate  be  innocent, 

Or  being  bad,  yet  murmurs  at  the  curse 

And  incapacity  of  being  worse, 

That  makes  my  hungry  passion  still  keep  Lent       \ 

In  keen  expectance  of  a  Carnival,  — 

Where,  in  all  worlds,  that  round  the  sun  revolve 

And  shed  their  influence  on  this  passive  ball, 

Abides  a  power  that  can  my  soul  absolve? 

Could  any  sin  survive,  and  be  forgiven, 

One  sinful  wish  would  make  a  hell  of  heaven. 

Hartley  Coleridge  (1796-1849). 


WHAT  WAS'T  AWAKENED  FIRST  THE 
UNTRIED  EAR 

WHAT  was't  awakened  first  the  untried  ear 
Of  that  sole  man  who  was  all  human  kind? 
Was  it  the  gladsome  welcome  of  the  wind, 
Stirring  the  leaves  that  never  yet  were  sere? 
The  four  mellifluous  streams  that  flowed  so  near, 
Their  lulling  murmurs  all  in  one  combined? 
The  note  of  bird  unnamed?  The  startled  hind 
Bursting  the  brake  —  in  wonder,  not  in  fear, 
Of  her  new  lord?  Or  did  the  holy  ground 
Send  forth  mysterious  melody  to  greet 
The  gracious  pressure  of  immaculate  feet? 
Did  viewless  seraphs  rustle  all  around, 
Making  sweet  music  out  of  air  as  sweet? 
Or  his  own  voice  awake  him  with  its  sound? 

Hartley  Coleridge. 

41 


SILENCE 

THERE  is  a  silence  where  hath  been  no  sound, 

There  is  a  silence  where  no  sound  may  be, 

In  the  cold  grave  —  under  the  deep,  deep  sea, 

Or  in  wide  desert  where  no  life  is  found, 

Which  hath  been  mute,  and  still  must  sleep  profound; 

No  voice  is  hushed  —  no  life  treads  silently, 

But  clouds  and  cloudy  shadows  wander  free, 

That  never  spoke,  over  the  idle  ground: 

But  in  green  ruins,  in  the  desolate  walls 

Of  antique  palaces,  where  Man  hath  been, 

Though  the  dun  fox,  or  wild  hyena,  calls, 

And  owls,  that  flit  continually  between, 

Shriek  to  the  echo,  and  the  low  winds  moan, 

There  the  true  Silence  is,  self-conscious  and  alone. 

Thomas  Hood  (1799-1846). 


SUBSTANCE  AND  SHADOW 

THEY  do  but  grope  in  learning's  pedant  round 
Who  on  the  phantasies  of  sense  bestow 
An  idol  substance,  bidding  us  bow  low 
Before  those  shades  of  being  which  are  found, 
Stirring  or  still,  on  man's  brief  trial-ground; 
As  if  such  shapes  and  modes,  which  come  and  go, 
Had  aught  of  Truth  or  Life  in  their  poor  show, 
To  sway  or  judge,  and  skill  to  sain  or  wound. 
Son  of  immortal  seed,  high-destined  Man! 
Know  thy  dread  gift,  —  a  creature,  yet  a  cause: 
Each  mind  is  its  own  centre,  and  it  draws 
Home  to  itself,  and  moulds  in  its  thought's  span, 
All  outward  things,  the  vassals  of  its  will, 
Aided  by  Heaven,  by  earth  unthwarted  still. 

Cardinal  Newman  (1801-1890). 


42 


HIDDEN  JOYS 

PLEASURES  lie  thickest  where  no  pleasures  seem, 

There 's  not  a  leaf  that  falls  upon  the  ground, 

But  holds  some  joy,  of  silence,  or  of  sound; 

Some  sprite  begotten  of  a  summer  dream. 

The  very  meanest  things  are  made  supreme 

With  innate  ecstasy.  No  grain  of  sand 

But  moves  a  bright  and  million  peopled  land, 

And  hath  its  Edens  and  its  Eves,  I  deem. 

For  Love,  though  blind  himself,  a  curious  eye 

Hath  lent  me,  to  behold  the  hearts  of  things, 

And  touched  mine  ear  with  power.  Thus,  far  or  nigh, 

Minute  or  mighty,  fixed,  or  free  with  wings, 

Delight  from  many  a  nameless  covert  sly 

Peeps  sparkling,  and  in  tones  familiar  sings. 

Samuel  Laman  Blanchard  (1804-1 845). 


NATURE 

As  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er, 
Leads  by  the  hand  her  little  child  to  bed, 
Half  willing,  half  reluctant  to  be  led, 
And  leave  his  broken  play  things' on  the  floor, 
Still  gazing  at  them  through  the  open  door, 
Nor  wholly  reassured  and  comforted 
By  promises  of  others  in  their  stead, 
Which,  though  more  splendid,  may  not  please  him  more; 
So  Nature  deals  with  us,  and  takes  away 
Our  playthings  one  by  one,  and  by  the  hand 
Leads  us  to  rest  so  gently,  that  we  go 
Scarce  knowing  if  we  wished  to  go  or  stay, 
Being  too  full  of  sleep  to  understand 
How  far  the  unknown  transcends  the  what  we  know. 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  (1807-1882). 


43 


HOLIDAYS 

THE  holiest  of  all  holidays  are  those 
Kept  by  ourselves  in  silence  and  apart; 
The  secret  anniversaries  of  the  heart, 
When  the  full  river  of  feeling  overflows:  — 
The  happy  days  unclouded  to  their,  close; 
The  sudden  joys  that  out  of  darkness  start 
As  flames  from  ashes;  swift  desires  that  dart 
Like  swallows  singing  down  each  wind  that  blows! 
White  as  the  gleam  of  a  receding  sail, 
White  as  a  cloud  that  floats  and  fades  in  air, 
White  as  the  whitest  lily  on  the  stream, 
These  tender  memories  are;  —  a  fairy  tale 
Of  some  enchanted  land  we  know  not  where, 
But  lovely  as  a  landscape  in  a  dream. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


DIVINA  COMMEDIA 


OFT  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 
A  laborer,  pausing  in  the  dust  and  heat, 
Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  reverent  feet 
Enter,  and  cross  himself,  and  on  the  floor 
Kneel  to  repeat  his  paternoster  o'er; 
Far  off  the  noises  of  the  world  retreat; 
The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 
Become  an  undistinguishable  roar. 
So,  as  I  enter  here  from  day  to  day, 
And  leave  my  burden  at  this  minster  gate, 
Kneeling  in  prayer,  and  not  ashamed  to  pray, 
The  tumult  of  the  time  disconsolate 
To  inarticulate  murmurs  dies  away, 
While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

44 


II 

How  strange  the  sculptures  that  adorn  these  towers! 
This  crowd  of  statues,  in  whose  folded  sleeves 
Birds  build  their  nests;  while  canopied  with  leaves 
Parvis  and  portal  bloom  like  trellised  bowers, 
And  the  vast  minster  seems  a  cross  of  flowers! 
But  fiends  and  dragons  on  the  gargoyled  eaves 
Watch  the  dead  Christ  between  the  living  thieves, 
And,  underneath,  the  traitor  Judas  lowers! 
Ah!  from  what  agonies  of  heart  and  brain, 
What  exultations  trampling  on  despair, 
What  tenderness,  what  tears,  what  hate  of  wrong, 
What  passionate  outcry  of  a  soul  in  pain, 
Uprose  this  poem  of  the  earth  and  air, 
This  mediaeval  miracle  of  song! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


Ill 

I  ENTER,  and  I  see  thee  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  long  aisles,  O  poet  saturnine! 

And  strive  to  make  my  steps  keep  pace  with  thine. 

The  air  is  filled  with  some  unknown  perfume; 

The  congregation  of  the  dead  make  room 

For  thee  to  pass;  the  votive  tapers  shine; 

Like  rooks  that  haunt  Ravenna's  groves  of  pine 

The  hovering  echoes  fly  from  tomb  to  tomb. 

From  the  confessionals  I  hear  arise 

Rehearsals  of  forgotten  tragedies, 

And  lamentations  from  the  crypts  below; 

And  then  a  voice  celestial  that  begins 

With  the  pathetic  words,  "Although  your  sins 

As  scarlet  be,"  and  ends  with  "as  the  snow." 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 
45 


A  WRETCHED  THING  IT  WERE,  TO  HAVE 
OUR  HEART 

A  WRETCHED  thing  it  were,  to  have  our  heart 

Like  a  broad  highway  or  a  populous  street, 

Where  every  idle  thought  has  leave  to  meet, 

Pause,  or  pass  on,  as  in  an  open  mart; 

Or  like  some  road-side  pool,  which  no  nice  art 

Has  guarded  that  the  cattle  may  not  beat 

And  foul  it  with  a  multitude  of  feet, 

Till  of  the  heavens  it  can  give  back  no  part. 

But  keep  thou  thine  a  holy  solitude, 

For  He,  who  would  walk  there,  would  walk  alone; 

He  who  would  drink  there,  must  be  first  endued 

With  single  right  to  call  that  stream  his  own; 

Keep  thou  thine  heart  close-fastened,  unrevealed, 

A  fenced  garden  and  a  fountain  sealed. 

Archbishop  Trench  (1807-1886). 


TO  LEAVE  UNSEEN  SO  MANY  A  GLORIOUS 
SIGHT 

To  leave  unseen  so  many  a  glorious  sight, 

To  leave  so  many  lands  unvisited, 

To  leave  so  many  worthiest  books  unread, 

Unrealized  so  many  visions  bright; 

Oh!  wretched  yet  inevitable  spite 

Of  our  brief  span,  that  we  must  yield  our  breath, 

And  wrap  us  in  the  unfeeling  coil  of  death, 

So  much  remaining  of  unproved  delight. 

But  hush,  my  soul,  and  vain  regrets,  be  stilled; 

Find  rest  in  Him  who  is  the  complement 

Of  whatsoe'er  transcends  our  mortal  doom, 

Of  baffled  hope  and  unfulfilled  intent: 

In  the  clear  vision  and  aspect  of  whom 

All  longings  and  all  hopes  shall  be  fulfilled. 

Archbishop  Trench. 
46 


THE  OCEAN 

THE  Ocean,  at  the  bidding  of  the  Moon, 
For  ever  changes  with  his  restless  tide; 
Flung  shoreward  now,  to  be  regathered  soon 
With  kingly  pauses  of  reluctant  pride, 
And  semblance  of  return.  Anon  from  home 
He  issues  forth  again,  high  ridged  and  free, 
The  seething  hiss  of  his  tumultuous  foam 
Like  armies  whispering  where  great  echoes  be! 
Oh!  leave  me  here  upon  this  beach  to  rove, 
Mute  listener  to  that  sound  so  grand  and  lone  — 
A  glorious  sound,  deep-drawn  and  strongly  thrown, 
And  reaching  those  on  mountain  heights  above; 
To  British  ears,  as  who  shall  scorn  to  own, 
A  tutelar  fond  voice,  a  Saviour-tone  of  love! 

Charles  Tennyson-Turner  (1808-1879). 


THE  BUOY-BELL 

How  like  the  leper,  with  his  own  sad  cry 
Enforcing  his  own  solitude,  it  tolls! 
That  lonely  bell  set  in  the  rushing  shoals, 
To  warn  us  from  the  place  of  jeopardy! 
0  friend  of  man!  sore- vexed  by  Ocean's  power, 
The  changing  tides  wash  o'er  thee  day  by  day; 
Thy  trembling  mouth  is  filled  with  bitter  spray, 
Yet  still  thou  ringest  on  from  hour  to  hour; 
High  is  thy  mission,  though  thy  lot  is  wild  — 
To  be  in  danger's  realm  a  guardian  sound; 
In  seamen's  dreams  a  pleasant  part  to  bear, 
And  earn  their  blessing  as  the  year  goes  round; 
And  strike  the  key-note  of  each  grateful  prayer, 
Breathed  in  their  distant  homes  by  wife  or  child! 

Charles  Tennyson-Turner. 
47 


THE  LATTICE  AT  SUNRISE 

As  on  my  bed  at  dawn  I  mused  and  prayed, 
I  saw  my  lattice  pranked  upon  the  wall, 
The  flaunting  leaves  and  flitting  birds  withal  — 
A  sunny  phantom  interlaced  with  shade; 
"Thanks  be  to  heaven!"  in  happy  mood  I  said, 
"What  sweeter  aid  my  matins  could  befall 
Than  this  fair  glory  from  the  East  hath  made? 
What  holy  sleights  hath  God,  the  Lord  of  all, 
To  bid  us  feel  and  see!  we  are  not  free 
To  say  we  see  not,  for  the  glory  comes 
Nightly  and  daily,  like  the  flowing  sea; 
His  lustre  pierceth  through  the  midnight  glooms; 
And,  at  prime  hour,  behold!  He  follows  me 
With  golden  shadows  to  my  secret  rooms! 

Charles  Tennyson-Turner. 


TO  SCIENCE 

SCIENCE!  true  daughter  of  Old  Time  thou  art! 
Who  alterest  all  things  with  thy  peering  eyes. 
Why  preyest  thou  thus  upon  the  poet's  heart, 
Vulture  whose  wings  are  dull  realities? 
How  should  he  love  thee?  or  how  deem  thee  wise, 
Who  would'st  not  leave  him  in  his  wandering 
To  seek  for  treasure  in  the  jewelled  skies, 
Albeit  he  soared  with  an  undaunted  wing? 
Hast  thou  not  dragged  Diana  from  her  car? 
And  driven  the  Hamadryad  from  the  wood 
To  seek  a  shelter  in  some  happier  star? 
Hast  thou  not  torn  the  Naiad  from  her  flood, 
The  Elfin  from  the  green  grass,  and  from  me 
The  summer  dream  beneath  the  tamarind  tree? 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  (1809-1849). 


48 


THE  SOUL'S  EXPRESSION 

WITH  stammering  lips  and  insufficient  sound, 

I  strive  and  struggle  to  deliver  right 

That  music  of  my  nature,  day  and  night 

With  dream  and  thought  and  feeling  interwound, 

And  inly  answering  all  the  senses  round 

With  octaves  of  a  mystic  depth  and  height 

Which  step  out  grandly  to  the  infinite 

From  the  dark  edges  of  the  sensual  ground. 

This  song  of  soul  I  struggle  to  outbear 

Through  portals  of  the  sense,  sublime  and  whole, 

And  utter  all  myself  into  the  air: 

But  if  I  did  it,  —  as  the  thunder-roll 

Breaks  its  own  cloud,  my  flesh  would  perish  there, 

Before  that  dread  apocalypse  of  soul. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  (1809-1861). 


COMFORT 

SPEAK  low  to  me,  my  Saviour,  low  and  sweet 
From  out  the  hallelujahs,  sweet  and  low, 
Lest  I  should  fear  and  fall,  and  miss  Thee  so 
Who  art  not  missed  by  any  that  entreat. 
Speak  to  me  as  to  Mary  at  thy  feet! 
Aiid  if  no  precious  gums  my  hands  bestow, 
Let  my  tears  drop  like  amber  while  I  go 
In  reach  of  Thy  divinest  voice  complete 
In  humanest  affection  —  thus,  in  sooth, 
To  lose  the  sense  of  losing.  As  a  child, 
Whose  song-bird  seeks  the  wood  forevermore, 
Is  sung  to  in  its  stead  by  mother's  mouth 
Till,  sinking  on  her  breast,  love-reconciled. 
He  sleeps  the  faster  that  he  wept  before. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


49 


SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE 
VI 

Go  from  me.  Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.  Nevermore 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  forbore  — 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm.  The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in  mine 
With  pulses  that  beat  double.  What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.  And  when  I  sue 
God  for  myself,  He  hears  that  name  of  thine, 
And  sees  within  mine  eyes  the  tears  of  two. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


XIV 

IF  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought 
Except  for  love's  sake  only.  Do  not  say 
"I  love  her  for  her  smile  —  her  look  —  her  way 
Of  speaking  gently,  —  for  a  trick  of  thought 
That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 
A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day: "  — 
For  these  things  in  themselves,  Beloved,  may 
Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee,  —  and  love,  so  wrought, 
May  be  unwrought  so.  Neither  love  me  for 
Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks  dry,  — 
A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who  bore 
Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  thereby! 
But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 
Thou  mayst  love  on,  through  love's  eternity. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

50 


XXII 

WHEN  our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and  strong, 
Face  to  face,  silent,  drawing  nigh  and  nigher, 
Until  the  lengthening  wings  break  into  fire 
At  either  curved  point,  —  what  bitter  wrong 
Can  the  earth  do  to  us,  that  we  should  not  long 
Be  here  contented?  Think.  In  mounting  higher, 
The  angels  would  press  on  us  and  aspire 
To  drop  some  golden  orb  of  perfect  song 
Into  our  deep,  dear  silence.  Let  us  stay 
Rather  on  earth,  Belov&d,  —  where  the  unfit 
Contrarious  moods  of  men  recoil  away 
And  isolate  pure  spirits,  and  permit 
A  place  to  stand  and  love  in  for  a  day, 
With  darkness  and  the  death-hour  rounding  it. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


XLIII 

How  do  I  love  thee?  Let  me  count  the  ways. 

I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and  height 

My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 

For  ends  of  Being  and  ideal  Grace. 

I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  everyday's 

Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candle-light. 

I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right; 

I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise. 

I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 

In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's  faith. 

I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 

With  my  lost  saints,  —  I  love  thee  with  the  breath, 

Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life!  —  and,  if  God  choose, 

I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

51 


MONTENEGRO 

THEY  rose  to  where  their  sovran  eagle  sails, 
They  kept  their  faith,  their  freedom,  on  the  height, 
Chaste,  frugal,  savage,  arm'd  by  day  and  night 
Against  the  Turk,  whose  inroad  nowhere  scales 
Their  headlong  passes,  but  his  footstep  fails, 
And  red  with  blood  the  Crescent  reels  from  fight 
Before  their  dauntless  hundreds,  in  prone  flight 
By  thousands  down  the  crags  and  thro'  the  vales. 
O  smallest  among  peoples!  rough  rock-throne 
Of  Freedom!  warriors  beating  back  the  swarm 
Of  Turkish  Islam  for  five  hundred  years, 
Great  Tsernogora!  never  since  thine  own 
Black  ridges  drew  the  cloud  and  brake  the  storm 
Has  breathed  a  race  of  mightier  mountaineers. 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson  (1809-1892). 


WRITTEN  IN  EDINBURGH 

EVEN  thus,  methinks,  a  city  reared  should  be, 

Yea,  an  imperial  city,  that  might  hold 

Five  times  a  hundred  noble  towns  in  fee, 

And  either  with  their  might  of  Babel  old, 

Or  the  rich  Roman  pomp  of  empery 

Might  stand  compare,  highest  in  arts  enrolled, 

Highest  in  arms;  brave  tenement  for  the  free, 

Who  never  couch  to  thrones,  or  sin  for  gold. 

Thus  should  her  towers  be  raised  —  with  vicinage 

Of  clear  bold  hills,  that  curve  her  very  streets, 

As  if  to  vindicate  'mid  choicest  seats 

Of  art,  abiding  Nature's  majesty; 

And  the  broad  sea  beyond,  in  calm  or  rage 

Chainless  alike,  and  teaching  Liberty. 

Arthur  Henry  Hallam  (1811-1833). 


52 


PARTED  LOVE 

METHINKS  I  have  passed  through  some  dreadful  door, 
Shutting  off  summer  and  its  sunniest  glades 
From  a  dark  waste  of  marsh  and  ruinous  shades: 
And  in  that  sunlit  past,  one  day  before 
All  other  days  is  crimson  to  the  core; 
That  day  of  days  when  hand  in  hand  became 
Encircling  arms,  and  with  an  effluent  flame 
Of  terrible  surprise,  we  knew  love's  lore. 
The  rose-red  ear  that  then  my  hand  caressed, 
Those  smiles  bewildered,  that  low  voice  so  sweet, 
The  truant  threads  of  silk  about  the  brow 
Dishevelled,  when  our  burning  lips  were  pressed 
Together,  and  the  temple-pulses  beat! 
All  gone  now  —  where  am  I,  and  where  art  thou  ? 
William  Bell  Scott  (1811-1890). 


THE  UNIVERSE  VOID 

REVOLVING  worlds,  revolving  systems,  yea, 
Revolving  firmaments,  nor  there  we  end: 
Systems  of  firmaments  revolving,  send 
Our  thought  across  the  Infinite  astray, 
Gasping  and  lost  and  terrified,  the  day 
Of  Me,  the  goodly  interests  of  home, 
Shrivelled  to  nothing;  that  unbounded  dome 
Pealing  still  on,  in  blind  fatality. 
No  rest  is  there  for  our  souPs  wingM  feet, 
She  must  return  for  shelter  to  her  ark  — 
The  body,  fair,  frail,  death-born,  incomplete, 
And  let  her  bring  this  truth  back  from  the  dark: 
Life  is  self-centred,  man  is  nature's  god; 
Space,  time,  are  but  the  walls  of  his  abode. 

William  Bell  Scott. 


THE  HUMAN  FLOWER 

IN  the  old  void  of  unrecorded  time, 

In  long,  slow  aeons  of  the  voiceless  past, 

A  seed  from  out  the  weltering  fire-mist  cast, 

Took  root  —  a  struggling  plant  that  from  its  prime 

Through  rudiments  uncouth,  through  rock  and  slime, 

Grew,  changing  form  and  issue  —  and  clinging  fast, 

Stretched  its  aspiring  tendrils  till  at  last 

Shaped  like  a  spirit  it  began  to  climb 

Beyond  its  rugged  stem,  with  leaf  and  bud 

Still  burgeoning  to  greet  the  sunlit  air 

That  clothed  its  regal  top  with  love  and  power, 

And  compassed  it  as  with  a  heavenly  flood  — 

Until  it  burst  in  boom  beyond  compare, 

The  world's  consummate,  peerless  human  flower. 

Christopher  P.  Cranch  (1813-1892). 


AGED  CITIES 

I  HAVE  known  cities  with  the  strong-armed  Rhine 

Clasping  their  mouldering  quays  in  lordly  sweep; 

And  lingered  where  the  Marne's  low  waters  shine 

Through  Tyrian  Frankfort;  and  been  fain  to  weep 

'Mid  the  green  cliffs  where  pale  Mosella  laves 

That  Roman  sepulchre,  imperial  Treves. 

Ghent  boasts  her  street,  and  Bruges  her  moonlight  square; 

And  holy  Mechlin,  Rome  of  Flanders,  stands, 

Like  a  queen  mother,  on  her  spacious  lands; 

And  Antwerp  shoots  her  glowing  spire  in  air. 

Yet  have  I  seen  no  place,  by  inland  brook, 

Hill-top,  or  plain,  or  trim  arcaded  bowers, 

That  carries  age  so  nobly  in  its  look, 

As  Oxford  with  the  sun  upon  its  towers. 

Frederick  William  Faber  (1814-1863). 

54 


TO  A  FLOWER  ON  THE  SKIRTS  OF 
MONT  BLANC 

WITH  heart  not  yet  half-rested  from  Mont  Blanc, 
O'er  thee,  small  flower,  my  wearied  eyes  I  bent, 
And  rested  on  that  humbler  vision  long. 
Is  there  less  beauty  in  thy  purple  tent 
Outspread,  perchance  a  boundless  firmament 
O'er  viewless  myriads  which  beneath  thee  throng, 
Than  in  that  mount  whose  sides,  with  ruin  hung, 
Frown  o'er  black  glens  and  gorges  thunder-rent? 
Is  there  less  mystery?  Wisely  if  we  ponder, 
Thine  is  the  mightier  marvel.  Life  in  thee 
Is  strong  as  in  cherubic  wings  that  wander, 
Seeking  the  limits  of  Infinity;  — 
Life,  life  to  be  transmitted,  not  to  expire 
Till  yonder  snowy  vault  shall  melt  in  fire. 

Aubrey  de  Vere  the  Younger  (1814-1902). 


THE  SUN-GOD 

I  SAW  the  Master  of  the  Sun.  He  stood 

High  in  his  luminous  car,  himself  more  bright; 

An  Archer  of  immeasurable  might: 

On  his  left  shoulder  hung  his  quivered  load; 

Spurned  by  his  Steeds  the  eastern  mountains  glowed; 

Forward  his  eager  eye,  and  brow  of  light 

He  bent;  and,  while  both  hands  that  arch  embowed, 

Shaft  after  shaft  pursued  the  flying  Night. 

No  wings  profaned  that  god-like  form :  around 

His  neck  high-held  an  ever-moving  crowd 

Of  locks  hung  glistening:  while  such  perfect  sound 

Fell  from  his  bowstring,  that  th'  ethereal  dome 

Thrilled  as  a  dew  drop;  and  each  passing  cloud 

Expanded,  whitening  like  the  ocean  foam. 

Aubrey  de  Vere  the  Younger. 


65 


THOUGH  TO  THE  VILEST  THINGS  BENEATH 
THE  MOON1 

THOUGH  to  the  vilest  things  beneath  the  moon 

For  poor  Ease'  sake  I  give  away  my  heart, 

And  for  the  moment's  sympathy  let  part 

My  sense  and  sight  of  truth,  Thy  precious  boon, 

My  painful  earnings,  lost,  all  lost,  as  soon 

Almost  as  gained;  and  though  aside  I  start, 

Belie  Thee  daily,  hourly,  —  still  Thou  art, 

Art  surely  as  in  heaven  the  sun  at  noon; 

How  much  so  e'er  I  sin,  what  e'er  I  do 

Of  evil,  still  the  sky  above  is  blue, 

The  stars  look  down  in  beauty  as  before: 

It  is  enough  to  walk  as  best  we  may, 

To  walk,  and,  sighing,  dream  of  that  blest  day 

When  ill  we  cannot  quell  shall  be  no  more. 

Arthur  Hugh  dough  (1819-1861). 


LOVE 

OUR  love  is  not  a  fading,  earthly  flower: 

Its  wing&d  seed  dropped  down  from  Paradise, 

And,  nursed  by  day  and  night,  by  sun  and  shower, 

Doth  momently  to  fresher  beauty  rise. 

To  us  the  leafless  autumn  is  not  bare, 

Nor  winter's  rattling  boughs  lack  lusty  green: 

Our  summer  hearts  make  summer's  fulness  where 

No  leaf,  or  bud,  or  blossom  may  be  seen: 

For  nature's  life  in  love's  deep  life  doth  lie; 

Love  —  whose  forgetfulness  is  beauty's  death, 

Whose  mystic  key  these  cells  of  Thou  and  I 

Into  the  infinite  freedom  openeth, 

And  makes  the  body's  dark  and  narrow  grate 

The  wide-flung  leaves  of  Heaven's  palace-gate. 

James  Russell  Lowell  (1819-1891). 

1  Reprinted  from  Poems,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  The  Macmillan 
Company. 

56 


AN  ANCIENT  CHESS  KING1 

HAPLY  some  Rajah  first  in  ages  gone 
Amid  his  languid  ladies  finger'd  thee, 
While  a  black  nightingale,  sun-swart  as  he, 
Sang  his  one  wife,  love's  passionate  orison: 
Haply  thou  mayst  have  pleased  old  Prester  John 
Among  his  pastures,  when  full  royally 
He  sat  in  tent  —  grave  shepherds  at  his  knee  — 
While  lamps  of  balsam  winked  and  glimmered  on. 
What  dost  thou  here?  Thy  masters  are  all  dead. 
My  heart  is  full  of  ruth  and  yearning  pain 
At  sight  of  thee,  O  king  that  hast  a  crown 
Outlasting  theirs,  and  tells  of  greatness  fled 
Through  cloud-hung  nights  of  unabated  rain 
And  murmur  of  the  dark  majestic  town. 

Jeanlngelow  (1820-1897). 


"TIMOR  MORTIS  CONTURBAT  ME" 

COULD  I  have  sung  one  Song  that  should  survive 
The  singer's  voice,  and  in  my  country's  heart 
Find  loving  echo  —  evermore  a  part 
Of  all  her  sweetest  memories;  could  I  give 
One  great  Thought  to  the  People,  that  should  prove 
The  spring  of  noble  action  in  their  hour 
Of  darkness,  or  control  their  headlong  power 
With  the  firm  reins  of  Justice  and  of  Love; 
Could  I  have  traced  one  Form  that  should  express 
The  sacred  mystery  that  underlies 
All  Beauty,  and  through  man's  enraptured  eyes 
Teach  him  how  beautiful  is  Holiness,  — 
I  had  not  feared  thee.  But  to  yield  my  breath, 
Life's  Purpose  unfulfilled!  —  This  is  thy  sting,  0 
Death !  Sir  Noel  Paton(1821-1901 ) . 

1  Reprinted  from  Complete  Poems,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Little, 
Brown  &  Company. 

57 


IMMORTALITY  * 

FOIL'D  by  our  fellow-men,  depressed,  outworn, 
We  leave  the  brutal  world  to  take  its  way, 
And,  Patience!  in  another  life,  we  say, 
The  world  shall  be  thrust  down,  and  we  up-borne! 
And  will  not,  then,  the  immortal  armies  scorn 
The  world's  poor  routed  leavings?  or  will  they,    ' 
Who  fail'd  under  the  heat  of  this  life's  day, 
Support  the  fervours  of  the  heavenly  morn? 
No,  no!  the  energy  of  life  may  be 
Kept  on  after  the  grave,  but  not  begun! 
And  he  who  flagg'd  not  in  the  earthly  strife, 
From  strength  to  strength  advancing  —  only  he, 
His  soul  well-knit,  and  all  his  battles  won, 
Mounts,  and  that  hardly,  to  eternal  life. 

Matthew  Arnold  (1822-1888). 


SHAKESPEARE 

OTHERS  abide  our  question.  Thou  art  free. 

We  ask  and  ask  —  Thou  smilest  and  art  still, 

Out-topping  knowledge.  For  the  loftiest  hill 

Who  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty, 

Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea, 

Making  the  heaven  of  heavens  his  dwelling-place, 

Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 

To  the  foiPd  searching  of  Mortality; 

And  thou,  who  didst  the  stars  and  sunbeams  know, 

Self-schooled,  self-scann'd,  self-honour'd,  self-secure, 

Didst  walk  on  earth  unguess'd  at.  —  Better  so! 

All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure, 

All  weakness  which  impairs,  all  griefs  which  bow, 

Find  their  sole  voice  in  that  victorious  brow. 

Matthew  Arnold. 

1  The  two  sonnets  by  Matthew  Arnold  are  reprinted  from  his  Poetical 
Works,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  The  Maomillan  Company. 

58 


LIKE  A  MUSICIAN  THAT  WITH  FLYING 
FINGER 

LIKE  a  musician  that  with  flying  finger 
Startles  the  voice  of  some  new  instrument, 
And,  though  he  knew  that  in  one  string  are  blent 
All  its  extremes  of  sound,  yet  still  doth  linger 
Among  the  lighter  threads,  fearing  to  start 
The  deep  soul  of  that  one  melodious  wire, 
Lest  it,  unanswering,  dash  his  high  desire, 
And  spoil  the  hopes  of  his  expectant  heart;  — 
Thus,  with  my  mistress  oft  conversing,  I 
Stir  every  lighter  theme  with  careless  voice, 
Gathering  sweet  music  and  celestial  joys 
From  the  harmonious  soul  o'er  which  I  fly; 
Yet  o'er  the  one  deep  master-chord  I  hover, 
And  dare  not  stoop,  fearing  to  tell  —  I  love  her. 

William  Caldwell  Roscoe  (1823-1859). 

THE  BUBBLE  OF  THE  SILVER  SPRINGING 
WAVES 

THE  bubble  of  the  silver-springing  waves, 
Castalian  music,  and  that  flattering  sound,          ^ 
Low  rustling  of  the  loved  Apollian  leaves, 
With  which  my  youthful  hair  was  to  be  crowned, 
Grow  dimmer  in  my  ears;  while  Beauty  grieves 
Over  her  votary,  less  frequent  found; 
And,  not  untouched  by  stormes,  my  life-boat  heaves 
Through  the  splashed  ocean-waters,  outward  bound. 
And  as  the  leaning  mariner,  his  hand 
Clasped  on  his  ear,  strives  trembling  to  reclaim 
Some  loved  lost  echo  from  the  fleeting  strand, 
So  lean  I  back  to  the  poetic  land; 
And  in  my  heart  a  sound,  a  voice,  a  name 
Hangs,  as  above  the  lamp  hangs  the  expiring  flame. 
William  Caldwell  Roscoe. 


59 


THE  ARMY  SURGEON 

OVER  that  breathing  waste  of  friends  and  foes, 
The  wounded  and  the  dying,  hour  by  hour 
In  will  a  thousand,  yet  but  one  in  power, 
He  labours  through  the  red  and  groaning  day. 
The  fearful  moorland  where  the  myriads  lay 
Moved  as  a  moving  field  of  mangled  worms. 
And  as  a  raw  brood,  orphaned  in  the  storms, 
Thrust  up  their  heads  if  the  wind  bend  a  spray 
Above  them,  but  when  the  bare  branch  performs 
No  sweet  parental  office,  sink  away 
With  helpless  chirp  of  woe,  so,  as  he  goes, 
Around  his  feet  in  clamorous  agony 
They  rise  and  fall;  and  all  the  seething  plain 
Bubbles  a  cauldron  vast  of  many-coloured  pain. 

Sydney  Dobell  (1824-1874). 


HOME:  IN  WAR  TIME 

SHE  turned  the  fair  page  with  her  fairer  hand  — 

More  fair  and  frail  than  it  was  wont  to  be; 

O'er  each  remembered  thing  he  loved  to  see 

She  lingered,  and  as  with  fairy's  wand 

Enchanted  it  to  order.  Oft  she  fanned 

New  motes  into  the  sun;  and  as  a  bee 

Sings  through  a  brake  of  bells,  so  murmured  she, 

And  so  her  patient  love  did  understand 

The  reliquary  room.  Upon  the  sill 

She  fed  his  favorite  bird.  "Ah,  Robin,  sing! 

He  loves  thee."  Then  she  touches  a  sweet  string 

Of  soft  recall,  and  towards  the  Eastern  hill 

Smiles  all  her  soul  —  for  him  who  cannot  hear 

The  raven  croaking  at  his  carrion  ear. 

Sydney  Dobell. 


60 


THE  CHURCH  IN  1849 

O  MIGHTY  Mother,  hearken!  for  thy  foes 

Gather  round  thee,  and  exulting  cry 

That  thine  old  strength  is  gone  and  thou  must  die, 

Pointing  with  fierce  rejoicing  to  thy  woes. 

And  is  it  so?  The  raging  whirlwind  blows 

No  stronger  now  than  it  has  done  of  yore: 

Rebellion,  strife,  and  sin  have  been  before; 

The  same  companions  whom  thy  Master  chose. 

We  too  rejoice:  we  know  thy  might  is  more 

When  to  the  world  thy  glory  seemeth  dim; 

Nor  can  Hell's  gates  prevail  to  conquer  Thee, 

Who  hearest  over  all  the  voice  of  Him 

Who  chose  thy  first  and  greatest  Prince  should  be 

A  fisher  on  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

Adelaide  A.  Procter  (1825-1864). 


DARKNESS1 

COME,  blessed  Darkness,  come,  and  bring  thy  balm 

For  eyes  grown  weary  of  the  garish  Day! 

Come  with  thy  soft,  slow  steps,  thy  garments  gray, 

Thy  veiling  shadows,  bearing  in  thy  palm 

The  poppy-seeds  of  slumber,  deep  and  calm! 

Come  with  thy  patient  stars,  whose  far-off  ray 

Steals  the  hot  fever  of  the  soul  away, 

Thy  stillness  sweeter  than  a  chanted  psalm! 

O  blessed  Darkness,  Day  indeed  is  fair, 

And  Light  is  dear  when  summer  days  are  long, 

And  one  by  one  the  harvesters  go  by; 

But  so  is  rest  sweet,  and  surcease  from  care, 

And  folded  palms,  and  hush  of  evensong, 

And  all  the  unfathomed  silence  of  the  sky! 

Julia  C.  R.  Dorr  (1825-1913). 

1  Reprinted  from  Poems,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Charles  Scrib- 
ner's  Sons. 

61 


TO  A  MOTH  THAT  DRINKETH  OF  THE 
RIPE  OCTOBER 

A  MOTH  belated,  —  sun  and  zephyr-kist,  — 

Trembling  about  a  pale  arbutus  bell, 

Probing  to  wildering  depths  its  honeyed  cell,  — 

A  noonday  thief,  a  downy  sensualist! 

Not  vainly,  sprite,  thou  drawest  careless  breath, 

Strikest  ambrosia  from  the  cool-cupped  flowers, 

And  flutterest  through  the  soft,  uncounted  hours, 

To  drop  at  last  in  unawaited  death;  — 

'T  is  something  to  be  glad!  and  those  fine  thrills 

Which  move  thee,  to  my  lip  have  drawn  the  smile 

Wherewith  we  look  on  joy.  Drink!  drown  thine  ills, 

If  ill  have  any  part  in  thee;  erewhile 

May  the  pent  force  —  thy  bounded  life  —  set  free, 

Fill  larger  sphere  with  equal  ecstasy! 

Emily  Pfeiffer  (1827-1890). 


TO  NATURE 

BLIND  Cyclops,  hurling  stones  of  destiny, 

And  not  in  fury!  —  working  bootless  ill, 

In  mere  vacuity  of  mind  and  will  — 

Man's  soul  revolts  against  thy  work  and  thee! 

Slaves  of  a  despot,  conscienceless  and  nil, 

Slaves,  by  mad  chance  befooled  to  think  them  free, 

We  still  might  rise,  and  with  one  heart  agree 

To  mar  the  ruthless  grinding  of  thy  mill! 

Dead  tyrant,  tho'  our  cries  and  groans  pass  by  thee, 

Man,  cutting  off  from  each  new  "tree  of  life" 

Himself,  its  fatal  flower,  could  still  defy  thee, 

In  waging  on  thy  work  eternal  strife,  — 

The  races  come  and  coming  evermore, 

Heaping  with  hecatombs  thy  dead-sea  shore. 

Emily  Pfeiffer. 

62 


AD  MATREM 
MARCH  13,  1862 

OFT  in  the  after-days,  when  thou  and  I 
Have  fallen  from  the  cope  of  human  view, 
When,  both  together,  under  the  sweet  sky 
We  sleep  beneath  the  daisies  and  the  dew, 
Men  will  recall  thy  gracious  presence  bland, 
Conning  the  pictured  sweetness  of  thy  face; 
Will  pore  o'er  paintings  by  thy  plastic  hand, 
And  vaunt  thy  skill,  and  tell  thy  deeds  of  grace. 
Oh  may  they  then,  who  crown  thee  with  true  bays, 
Saying,  "What  love  unto  her  son  she  bore! " 
Make  this  addition  to  thy  perfect  praise, 
"Nor  ever  yet  was  mother  worshipped  more!" 
So  shall  I  live  with  thee,  and  thy  dear  fame 
Shall  link  my  love  unto  thine  honoured  name. 

Julian  Henry  Fane  (1827-1870). 


A  SONNET  IS  A  MOMENT'S  MONUMENT1 

A  SONNET  is  a  moment's  monument,  — 

Memorial  from  the  SouPs  eternity 

To  the  one  deathless  hour.  Look  that  it  be, 

Whether  for  lustral  right  or  dire  portent, 

Of  its  own  arduous  fulness  reverent: 

Carve  it  in  ivory  or  in  ebony, 

As  Day  or  Night  may  rule;  and  let  Tune  see 

Its  flowering  crest  impearled  and  orient. 

A  Sonnet  is  a  coin:  its  face  reveals 

The  soul,  —  its  converse  to  what  Power  't  is  due:  — 

Whether  for  tribute  to  the  august  appeals 

Of  Life,  or  dower  in  Love's  high  retinue, 

It  serve:  or  'mid  the  dark  wharf's  cavernous  breath, 

In  Charon's  palm  it  pay  the  toll  to  Death. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  (1828-1882). 

1  The  eight  sonnets  by  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  are  reprinted  from  his  Com- 
plete Poetical  Works,  published  by  Little,  Brown  &  Company. 

63 


LOVE  SIGHT 

WHEN  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one? 

When  in  the  light  the  spirits  of  mine  eyes 

Before  thy  face,  their  altar,  solemnize 

The  worship  of  that  Love  through  thee  made  known? 

Or  when  in  the  dusk  hours  (we  two  alone) 

Close-kissed  and  eloquent  of  still  replies 

Thy  twilight-hidden  glimmering  visage  lies, 

And  my  soul  only  sees  thy  soul  its  own? 

O  love,  my  love!  if  I  no  more  should  see 

Thyself,  nor  on  the  earth  the  shadow  of  thee, 

Nor  image  of  thine  eyes  in  any  spring,  — 

How  then  should  sound  upon  Life's  darkening  slope 

The  ground- whirl  of  the  perished  leaves  of  Hope, 

The  wind  of  Death's  imperishable  wing? 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


THE  DARK  GLASS 

NOT  I  myself  know  all  my  love  for  thee: 
How  should  I  reach  so  far,  who  cannot  weigh 
To-morrow's  dower  by  gage  of  yesterday? 
Shall  birth  and  death,  and  all  dack  names  that  be 
As  doors  and  windows  bared  to  some  loud  sea, 
Lash  deaf  mine  ears  and  blind  my  face  with  spray; 
And  shall  my  sense  pierce  love,  —  the  last  relay 
And  ultimate  outpost  of  eternity? 
Lo!  what  am  I  to  Love,  the  lord  of  all? 
One  murmuring  shell  he  gathers  from  the  sand,  — 
One  little  heart-flame  sheltered  in  his  hand. 
Yet  through  thine  eyes  he  grants  me  clearest  call 
And  veriest  touch  of  powers  primordial 
That  any  hour-girt  life  may  understand. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


64 


THE  SONG-THROE 

BY  thine  own  tears  thy  song  must  tears  beget, 

O  Singer!  Magic  mirror  thou  hast  none 

Except  thy  manifest  heart;  and  save  thine  own 

Anguish  or  ardor,  else  no  amulet. 

Cisterned  in  Pride,  verse  is  the  feathery  jet 

Of  soulless  air-flung  fountains;  nay,  more  dry 

Than  the  Dead  Sea  for  throats  that  thirst  and  sigh, 

That  song  o'er  which  no  singer's  lids  grew  wet. 

The  Song-god  —  He  the  Sun-god  —  is  no  slave 

Of  thine:  thy  Hunter  he,  who  for  thy  soul 

Fledges  his  shaft:  to  no  august  control 

Of  thy  skilled  hand  his  quivered  store  he  gave: 

But  if  thy  lips'  loud  cry  leap  to  his  smart, 

The  inspired  recoil  shall  pierce  thy  brother's  heart. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  NIGHT 

FROM  child  to  youth;  from  youth  to  arduous  man; 

From  lethargy  to  fever  of  the  heart; 

From  faithful  life  to  dream-dowered  days  apart; 

From  trust  to  doubt;  from  doubt  to  brink  of  ban;  — 

Thus  much  of  change  in  one  swift  cycle  ran 

Till  now.  Alas,  the  soul!  —  how  soon  must  she 

Accept  her  primal  immortality,  — 

The  flesh  resume  its  dust  whence  it  began! 

O  Lord  of  work  and  peace!  O  Lord  of  life! 

O  Lord,  the  awful  Lord  of  will!  though  late, 

Even  yet  renew  this  soul  with  duteous  breath: 

That  when  the  peace  is  garnered  in  from  strife, 

The  work  retrieved,  the  will  regenerate, 

This  soul  may  see  thy  face,  0  Lord  of  death! 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


65 


SOUL'S  BEAUTY 

UNDER  the  arch  of  Life,  where  love  and  death, 

Terror  and  mystery,  guard  her  shrine,  I  saw 

Beauty  enthroned;  and  though  her  gaze  struck  awe, 

I  drew  it  in  as  simply  as  my  breath. 

Hers  are  the  eyes  which,  over  and  beneath, 

The  sky  and  sea  bend  on  thee,  —  which  can  draw, 

By  sea  or  sky  or  woman,  to  one  law, 

The  allotted  bondman  of  her  palm  and  wreath. 

This  is  that  Lady  Beauty,  in  whose  praise 

Thy  voice  and  hand  shake  still  —  long  known  to  thee 

By  flying  hair  and  fluttering  hem,  —  the  beat 

Following  her  daily  of  thy  heart  and  feet, 

How  passionately  and  irretrievably, 

In  what  fond  flight,  how  many  ways  and  days! 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


LOST  DAYS 

THE  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day, 
What  were  they,  could  I  see  them  on  the  street 
Lie  as  they  fell?  Would  they  be  ears  of  wheat 
Sown  once  for  food  but  trodden  into  clay? 
Or  golden  coins  squandered  and  still  to  pay? 
Or  drops  of  blood  dabbling  the  guilty  feet? 
Or  such  spilt  water  as  in  dreams  must  cheat 
The  undying  throats  of  Hell,  athirst  alway? 
I  do  not  see  them  here;  but  after  death 
God  knows  I  know  the  faces  I  shall  see,  — 
Each  one  a  murdered  self,  with  low  last  breath. 
"I  am  thyself,  —  what  hast  thou  done  to  me?  " 
"And  I  —  and  I  —  thyself,"  (lo!  each  one  saith,) 
"And  thou  thyself  to  all  eternity!" 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


66 


ON  REFUSAL  OF  AID  BETWEEN  NATIONS 

NOT  that  the  earth  is  changing,  O  my  God! 
Not  that  the  seasons  totter  in  their  walk,  — 
Nor  that  the  virulent  ill  of  act  and  talk 
Seethes  ever  as  a  wine-press  ever  trod,  — 
Not  therefore  are  we  certain  that  the  rod 
Weighs  in  thine  hand  to  smite  thy  world;  though  now 
Beneath  thine  hand  so  many  nations  bow, 
So  many  kings:  —  not  therefore,  0  my  God! 
But  because  Man  is  parcelled  out  in  men 
To-day;  because,  for  any  wrongful  blow, 
No  man  not  stricken  asks,  "I  would  be  told 
Why  thou  dost  thus  ";  but  his  heart  whispers  then, 
"He  is  he,  I  am  I."  By  this  we  know 
That  the  earth  falls  asunder,  being  old. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


INTERNAL  HARMONY1 

ASSURED  of  worthiness,  we  do  not  dread 
Competitors;  we  rather  give  them  hail 
And  greeting  in  the  lists  where  we  may  fail: 
Must,  if  we  bear  an  aim  beyond  the  head! 
My  betters  are  my  masters:  purely  fed 
By  their  sustainment  I  likewise  shall  scale 
Some  rocky  steps  between  the  mount  and  vale; 
Meanwhile  the  mark  I  have  and  I  will  wed. 
So  that  I  draw  the  breath  of  finer  air, 
Station  is  naught,  nor  footways  laurel-strewn, 
Nor  rivals  tightly  belted  for  the  race. 
God  speed  to  them!  My  place  is  here  or  there, 
My  pride  is  that  among  them  I  have  place: 
And  thus  I  keep  this  instrument  in  tune. 

George  Meredith  (1828-1909). 

1  The  three  sonnets  by  George  Meredith  are  reprinted  from  his  Works,  by 
permission  of  the  publishers,  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

67 


ON  THE  DANGER  OF  WAR 

AVERT,  High  Wisdom,  never  vainly  wooed, 

This  threat  of  War,  that  shows  a  land  brain-sick. 

When  nations  gain  the  pitch  where  rhetoric 

Seems  reason  they  are  ripe  for  cannon's  food. 

Dark  looms  the  issue  though  the  cause  be  good, 

But  with  the  doubt 't  is  our  old  devil's  trick. 

O  now  the  down-slope  of  the  lunatic 

Illumine  lest  we  redden  of  that  brood! 

For  not  since  man,  in  his  first  view  of  Thee, 

Ascended  to  the  heavens,  giving  sign 

Within  him  of  deep  sky  and  sounded  sea, 

Did  he  unforfeiting  thy  laws  transgress; 

In  peril  of  his  blood  his  ears  incline 

To  drums  whose  loudness  is  their  emptiness. 

George  Meredith. 


LUCIFER  IN  STARLIGHT 

ON  a  starred  night  Prince  Lucifer  uprose. 
Tired  of  his  dark  dominion  swung  the  fiend 
Above  the  rolling  ball  in  cloud  part  screened, 
Where  sinners  hugged  their  spectre  of  repose. 
Poor  prey  to  his  hot  fit  of  pride  were  those. 
And  now  upon  his  western  wing  he  leaned, 
Now  his  huge  bulk  o'er  Africa  careened, 
Now  the  black  planet  shadowed  Arctic  snows. 
Soaring  through  wider  zones  that  pricked  his  scars 
With  memory  of  the  old  revolt  from  Awe, 
He  reached  a  middle  height,  and  at  the  stars, 
Which  are  the  brain  of  heaven,  he  looked,  and  sank. 
Around  the  ancient  track  marched,  rank  on  rank, 
The  army  of  unalterable  law. 

George  Meredith. 


68 


DEMOCRACY  DOWNTRODDEN 

How  long,  O  Lord?  —  The  voice  is  sounding  still: 

Not  only  heard  beneath  the  altar-stone, 

Not  heard  of  John  Evangelist  alone 

In  Patmos.  It  doth  cry  aloud  and  will 

Between  the  earth's  end  and  earth's  end,  until 

The  day  of  the  great  reckoning  —  bone  for  bone, 

And  blood  for  righteous  blood,  and  groan  for  groan: 

Then  shall  it  cease  on  the  air  with  a  sudden  thrill: 

Not  slowly  growing  fainter  if  the  rod 

Strikes  here  or  there  amid  the  evil  throng; 

Or  one  oppressor's  hand  is  stayed  and  numbs; 

Not  till  the  vengeance  that  is  coming  comes. 

For  shall  all  hear  the  voice  excepting  God, 

Or  God  not  listen,  hearing?  —  Lord,  how  long? 

William  Michael  Rossetti  (1829 ). 


THE  WORLD1 

BY  day  she  wooes  me,  soft,  exceeding  fair: 

But  all  night  as  the  moon  so  changeth  she; 

Loathsome  and  foul  with  hideous  leprosy, 

And  subtle  serpents  gliding  in  her  hair. 

By  day  she  wooes  me  to  the  outer  air, 

Ripe  fruits,  sweet  flowers,  and  full  satiety: 

But  through  the  night,  a  beast  she  grins  at  me, 

A  very  monster  void  of  love  and  prayer. 

By  day  she  stands  a  lie:  by  night  she  stands, 

In  all  the  naked  horror  of  the  truth, 

With  pushing  horns  and  clawed  and  clutching 

hands. 

Is  this  a  friend  indeed,  that  I  should  sell 
My  soul  to  her,  give  her  my  life  and  youth, 
Till  my  feet,  cloven  too,  take  hold  on  hell  ? 

Christina  G.  Rossetti  (1830-1894). 

1  The  three  sonnets  by  Christina  G.  Rossetti  are  reprinted  from  her  Poetical 
Works,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  The  Macmillan  Company. 

69 


REST 

O  EARTH,  lie  heavily  upon  her  eyes; 

Seal  her  sweet  eyes  weary  of  watching,  Earth; 

Lie  close  around  her;  leave  no  room  for  mirth, 

With  its  harsh  laughter,  nor  for  sound  of  sighs. 

She  hath  no  questions,  she  hath  no  replies, 

Hush'd  in  and  curtain'd  with  a  blessed  dearth 

Of  all  that  irk'd  her  from  the  hour  of  birth; 

With  stillness  that  is  almost  Paradise. 

Darkness  more  clear  than  noonday  holdeth  her, 

Silence  more  musical  than  any  song; 

Even  her  very  heart  has  ceased  to  stir: 

Until  the  morning  of  Eternity 

Her  rest  shall  not  begin  nor  end,  but  be; 

And  when  she  wakes  she  will  not  think  it  long. 

Christina  G.  Rossetti. 


REMEMBER 

REMEMBER  me  when  I  am  gone  away, 
Gone  far  away  into  the  silent  land; 
When  you  can  no  more  hold  me  by  the  hand, 
Nor  I  half  turn  to  go  yet  turning  stay. 
Remember  me  when  no  more,  day  by  day, 
You  tell  me  of  our  future  that  you  planned: 
Only  remember  me;  you  understand 
It  will  be  late  to  counsel  then  or  pray. 
Yet  if  you  should  forget  me  for  a  while 
And  afterwards  remember,  do  not  grieve 
For  if  the  darkness  and  corruption  leave 
A  vestige  of  the  thoughts  that  once  I  had, 
Better  by  far  you  should  forget  and  smile 
Than  that  you  should  remember  and  be  sad. 

Christina  G.  Rossetti. 


70 


MAZZINI l 

THAT  he  is  dead  the  sons  of  kings  are  glad; 
And  in  their  beds  the  tyrants  sounder  sleep. 
Now  he  is  dead  his  martyrdom  will  reap 
Late  harvest  of  the  palms  it  should  have  had 
In  life.  Too  late  the  tardy  lands  are  sad. 
His  unclaimed  crown  in  secret  they  will  keep 
For  ages,  while  in  chains  they  vainly  weep, 
And  vainly  grope  to  find  the  roads  he  bade 
Them  take.  0  glorious  soul!  there  is  no  dearth 
Of  worlds.  There  must  be  many  better  worth 
Thy  presence  and  thy  leadership  than  this. 
No  doubt,  on  some  great  sun  to-day,  thy  birth 
Is  for  a  race,  the  dawn  of  Freedom's  bliss, 
Which  but  for  thee  it  might  for  ages  miss. 

Helen  Hunt  Jackson  (1831-1885). 


THE  SONNET'S  VOICE 

YON  silvery  billows  breaking  on  the  beach 
Fall  back  in  foam  beneath  the  star-shine  clear, 
The  while  my  rhymes  are  murmuring  in  your  ear 
A  restless  lore  like  that  the  billows  teach; 
For  on  these  sonnet- waves  my  soul  would  reach 
From  its  own  depths,  and  rest  within  you,  dear. 
As,  through  the  billowy  voices  yearning  here 
Great  nature  strives  to  find  a  human  speech. 
A  sonnet  is  a  wave  of  melody: 
From  heaving  waters  of  the  impassioned  soul 
A  billow  of  tidal  music  one  and  whole 
Flows  in  the  "  octave ";  then  returning  free, 
Its  ebbing  surges  in  the  "sestet"  roll 
Back  to  the  deeps  of  Life's  tumultuous  sea. 

Theodore  Watts-Dunton  (1832 ). 

1  Reprinted  from  Poems,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Little,  Brown  & 
Company. 

71 


NATURA  BENIGNA1 

WHAT  power  is  this?  What  witchery  wins  my  feet 
To  peaks  so  sheer  they  scorn  the  cloaking  snow, 
All  silent  as  the  emerald  gulfs  below, 
Down  whose  ice-walls  the  wings  of  twilight  beat? 
What  thrill  of  earth  and  heaven  —  most  wild,  most 

sweet  — 

What  answering  pulse  that  all  the  senses  know, 
Comes  leaping  from  the  ruddy  eastern  glow 
Where,  far  away,  the  skies  and  mountains  meet? 
Mother,  't  is  I  reborn:  I  know  thee  well: 
That  throb  I  know  and  all  its  prophesies, 
O  Mother  and  Queen,  beneath  the  olden  spell 
Of  silence,  gazing  from  thy  hills  and  skies! 
Dumb  Mother,  struggling  with  the  years  to  tell 
The  secret  at  thy  heart  through  helpless  eyes. 

Theodore  Watts-Dunton. 


A  DREAM 

BENEATH  the  loveliest  dream  there  coils  a  fear: 
Last  night  came  she  whose  eyes  are  memories  now; 
Her  far-off  gaze  seemed  all  forgetful  how 
Love  dimmed  them  once,  so  calm  they  shone  and  clear. 
"Sorrow,"  I  said,  "has  made  me  old,  my  dear; 
'Tis  I,  indeed,  but  grief  can  change  the  brow: 
Beneath  my  load  a  seraph's  neck  might  bow, 
Vigils  like  mine  would  blanch  an  angePs  hair." 
Oh,  then  I  saw,  I  saw  the  sweet  lips  move! 
I  saw  the  love-mists  thickening  in  her  eyes  — 
I  heard  a  sound  as  if  a  murmuring  dove 
Felt  lonely  in  the  dells  of  Paradise; 
But  when  upon  my  neck  she  fell,  my  love, 
Her  hair  smelt  sweet  of  whin  and  woodland  spice. 

Theodore  Watts-Dunton. 

i  The  three  following  sonnets  by  Theodore  Watts-Dunton  are  reprinted 
from  The  Coming  of  Love,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  John  Lane  Com- 
pany. 

72 


IN  A  GRAVEYARD 

OLIVER  MADOX  BROWN 

NOVEMBER  12,  1874 

FAREWELL  to  thee,  and  to  our  dreams  farewell  — 
Dreams  of  high  deeds  and  golden  days  of  thine, 
Where  once  again  should  Art's  twin  powers  combine  — 
The  painter's  wizard- wand,  the  poet's  spell! 
Though  Death  strikes  free,  careless  of  Heaven  and  Hell  — 
Careless  of  Man,  of  Love's  most  lovely  shrine; 
Yet  must  Man  speak  —  must  ask  of  Heaven  a  sign 
That  this  wild  world  is  God's,  and  all  is  well. 
Last  night  we  mourned  thee,  cursing  eyeless  Death, 
Who,  sparing  sons  of  Baal  and  Ashtoreth, 
Must  needs  slay  thee,  worth  all  the  world  to  slay; 
But  round  this  grave  the  winds  of  winter  say: 
"On  earth  what  hath  the  poet?  An  alien  breath. 
Night  holds  the  keys  that  ope  the  doors  of  Day." 

Theodore  Watts-Dunton. 

DANTE  * 

POET,  whose  unscarred  feet  have  trodden  Hell, 
By  what  grim  path  and  dread  environing 
Of  fire  couldst  thou  that  dauntless  footstep  bring 
And  plant  it  firm  amid  the  dolorous  cell 
Of  darkness  where  perpetually  dwell 
The  spirits  cursed  beyond  imagining? 
Or  else  is  thine  a  visionary  wing, 
And  all  thy  terror  but  a  tale  to  tell? 
" Neither  and  both,  thou  seeker!  I  have  been 
No  wilder  path  than  thou  thyself  dost  go, 
Close  masked  in  an  impenetrable  screen, 
Which  having  rent  I  gaze  around,  and  know 
What  tragic  wastes  of  gloom,  before  unseen, 
Curtain  the  soul  that  strives  and  sins  below. 

Richard  Garnett  (1835-1906). 

1  The  two  sonnets  by  Richard  Garnett  are  reprinted  from  The  Queen  and 
Other  Poems,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  John  Lane  Company. 

73 


AGE 

I  WILL  not  rail  or  grieve,  when  torpid  eld 
Frosts  the  slow- journeying  blood,  for  I  shall  see 
The  lovelier  leaves  hang  yellow  on  the  tree, 
The  nimbler  brooks  in  icy  fetters  held. 
Methinks  the  aged  eye  that  first  beheld 
The  fitful  ravage  of  December  wild, 
Then  knew  himself  indeed  dear  Nature's  child, 
Seeing  the  common  doom,  that  all  compelled. 
No  kindred  we  to  her  belov&d  broods, 
If,  dying  these,  we  drew  a  selfish  breath; 
But  one  path  travel  all  her  multitudes, 
And  none  dispute  the  solemn  Voice  that  saith : 
"Sun  to  thy  setting;  to  your  autumn,  woods; 
Stream  to  thy  sea;  and  man  unto  thy  death!" 

Richard  Garnett. 

A  PARABLE1 

I  LONGED  for  rest,  and  some  one  spoke  me  fair, 
And  proffered  goodly  rooms  wherein  to  dwell, 
Hung  round  with  tapestries,  and  garnished  well, 
That  I  might  take  mine  ease  and  pleasure  there; 
And  there  I  sought  a  refuge  from  despair, 
A  joy  that  should  my  life's  long  gloom  dispel; 
But  ominously  through  those  fair  halls  there  fell 
Strange  sounds,  as  of  old  music  in  the  air. 
As  day  went  down,  the  music  grew  apace, 
And  in  the  moonlight  saw  I,  white  and  cold, 
A  presence,  radiant  in  the  radiant  space, 
With  smiling  lips  that  never  had  grown  old; 
And  then  I  knew  the  secret  none  had  told, 
And  shivered  there,  an  alien  in  that  place. 

Louise  Chandler  Moulton  (1885-1908). 

1  Reprinted  from  Poems  and  Sonnets,  by  permission  of  the  publishers, 
Little,  Brown  &  Company. 

74 


LOVE'S  WISDOM1 

Now  on  the  summit  of  Love's  topmost  peak 
Kiss  we  and  part;  no  further  can  we  go; 
And  better  death  than  we  from  high  to  low 
Should  dwindle  or  decline  from  strong  to  weak. 
We  have  found  all,  there  is  no  more  to  seek; 
All  have  we  proved,  no  more  is  there  to  know; 
And  Time  could  only  tutor  us  to  eke 
Out  rapture's  warmth  with  custom's  afterglow. 
We  cannot  keep  at  such  a  height  as  this; 
For  even  straining  souls  like  ours  inhale 
But  once  in  life  so  rarefied  a  bliss. 
What  if  we  lingered  till  love's  breath  should  fail! 
Heaven  of  my  Earth!  one  more  celestial  kiss, 
Then  down  by  separate  pathways  to  the  vale. 

Alfred  Austin  (1835 ). 


ENGLAND 

WHILE  men  pay  reverence  to  the  mighty  things, 
They  must  revere  thee,  thou  blue-cinctured  isle 
Of  England  —  not  to-day,  but  this  long  while 
In  front  of  nations,  Mother  of  great  kings, 
Soldiers,  and  poets.   Round  thee  the  sea  flings 
Her  steel  bright  arm,  and  shields  thee  from  the  guile 
And  hurt  of  France.  Secure,  with  august  smile, 
Thou  sittest,  and  the  East  its  tribute  brings. 
Some  say  thy  old-time  power  is  on  the  wane, 
Thy  moon  of  grandeur,  filled,  contracts  at  length  — 
They  see  it  darkening  down  from  less  to  less. 
Let  but  a  hostile  hand  make  threat  again, 
And  they  shall  see  thee  in  thy  ancient  strength, 
Each  iron  sinew  quivering,  lioness! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  (1836-1907). 

1  Reprinted  from  Lyrical  Poems  by  Alfred  Austin,  by  permission  of  the 
publishers,  The  Macmillan  Company. 

75 


WHEN  I  BEHOLD  WHAT  PLEASURE  IS 
PURSUIT 

WHEN  I  behold  what  pleasure  is  Pursuit 
What  life,  what  glorious  eagerness  it  is; 
Then  mark  how  full  Possession  falls  from  this, 
How  fairer  seems  the  blossom  than  the  fruit,  — 
I  am  perplext,  and  often  stricken  mute, 
Wondering  which  hath  attained  the  higher  bliss, 
The  winged  insect,  or  the  chrysalis 
It  thrust  aside  with  unreluctant  foot. 
Spirit  of  verse,  that  still  elud'st  my  art 
Thou  airy  phantom  that  dost  ever  haunt  me, 
O  never,  never  rest  upon  my  heart, 
If  when  I  have  thee  I  shall  little  want  thee! 
Still  flit  away  in  moonlight,  rain,  and  dew, 
Will-o'-the-wisp,  that  I  may  still  pursue! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


TO  THEODORE  WATTS-DUNTON  l 

SPRING  speaks  again,  and  all  our  woods  are  stirred, 

And  all  our  wide  glad  wastes  a-flower  around, 

That  twice  have  heard  keen  April's  clarion  sound 

Since  here  we  first  together  saw  and  heard 

Spring's  light  reverberate  and  reiterate  word 

Shine  forth  and  speak  in  season.  Life  stands  crowned 

Here  with  the  best  one  thing  it  ever  found, 

As  of  my  soul's  best  birthdays  dawns  the  third. 

There  is  a  friend  that  as  the  wise  man  saith 

Cleaves  closer  than  a  brother:  nor  to  me 

Hath  time  not  shown,  through  days  like  waves  at  strife, 

This  truth  more  sure  than  all  things  else  but  death, 

This  pearl  most  perfect  found  in  all  the  sea 

That  washes  towards  your  feet  these  waifs  of  life. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  (1837-1909). 

*  The  two  sonnets  by  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  are  reprinted  from  hia 
Collected  Poems,  published  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

76 


ON  THE  RUSSIAN  PERSECUTION  OF  THE 
JEWS 

(Written  June,  1882) 

O  SON  of  man,  by  lying  tongues  adored, 
By  slaughterous  hands  of  slaves  with  feet  red-shod 
In  carnage  deep  as  ever  Christian  trod 
Profaned  with  prayer  and  sacrifice  abhorred 
And  incense  from  the  trembling  tyrant's  horde, 
Brute  worshippers  of  wielders  of  the  rod, 
Most  murderous  even  of  all  that  call  thee  God, 
Most  treacherous  even  that  ever  called  thee  Lord; 
Face  loved  of  little  children  long  ago, 
Head  hated  of  the  priests  and  rulers  then, 
If  thou  see  this,  or  hear  these  hounds  of  thine 
Run  ravening  as  the  Gadarean  swine, 
Say,  was  not  this  thy  Passion,  to  foreknow 
In  death's  worst  hour  the  works  of  Christian  men? 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


THE  MARSEILLAISE 

WHAT  means  this  mighty  chant,  wherein  the  wail 

Of  some  intolerable  woe,  grown  strong 

With  sense  of  more  intolerable  wrong, 

Swells  to  a  stern  victorious  march  —  a  gale 

Of  vengeful  wrath?  What  mean  the  faces  pale, 

The  fierce  resolve,  the  ecstatic  pangs  along 

Life's  fiery  ways,  the  demon  thoughts  which  throng 

The  gates  of  awe,  when  these  wild  notes  assail 

The  sleeping  of  our  souls?  Hear  ye  no  more 

Than  the  mad  foam  of  revolution's  leaven, 

Than  a  roused  people's  throne-o'erwhelming  tread? 

Hark!  't  is  man's  spirit  thundering  on  the  shore 

Of  iron  fate;  the  tramp  of  titans  dread, 

Sworn  to  dethrone  the  gods  unjust  from  heaven. 

John  Todhunter  (1839 ). 

77 


BUT  ONE  SHORT  WEEK  AGO  THE  TREES 
WERE  BARE 

BUT  one  short  week  ago  the  trees  were  bare, 
And  winds  were  keen  and  violets  pinched  with  frost; 
Winter  was  with  us;  but  the  larches  tost 
Lightly  their  crimson  buds,  and  here  and  there 
Rooks  cawed.   To-day  the  Spring  is  in  the  air 
And  in  the  blood:  sweet  sun-gleams  come  and  go 
Upon  the  hills,  in  lanes  the  wild  flowers  blow, 
And  tender  leaves  are  bursting  everywhere. 
About  the  hedge  the  small  birds  peer  and  dart, 
Each  bush  is  full  of  amorous  flutterings 
And  little  rapturous  cries.   The  thrush  apart 
Sits  throned,  and  loud  his  ripe  contralto  rings. 
Music  is  on  the  wind,  and  in  my  heart 
Infinite  love  for  all  created  things. 

John  Todhunter. 


THE  JEWS'  CEMETERY 

Lido  of  Venice 

A  TRACT  of  land  swept  by  the  salt  sea  foam, 
Fringed  with  acacia  flowers,  and  billowy-deep 
In  meadow  grasses,  where  tall  poppies  sleep, 
And  bees  athirst  for  wilding  honey  roam. 
How  many  a  bleeding  heart  hath  found  its  home 
Under  these  hillocks  which  the  sea-mews  sweep! 
Here  knelt  an  outcast  race  to  curse  and  weep, 
Age  after  age,  'neath  heaven's  unanswering  dome. 
Sad  is  the  place,  and  solemn.   Grave  by  grave, 
Lost  in  the  dunes,  with  rank  weeds  overgrown, 
Pines  in  abandonment;  as  though  unknown, 
Uncared  for,  lay  the  dead,  whose  records  pave 
This  path  neglected;  each  forgotten  stone 
Wept  by  no  mourner  but  the  moaning  wave. 

John  Addington  Symonds  (1840-1898). 
78 


INEVITABLE  CHANGE 

REBUKE  me  not!  I  have  nor  wish  nor  skill 

To  alter  one  hair's  breadth  in  all  this  house 

Of  Love,  rising  with  domes  so  luminous 

And  air-built  galleries  on  life's  topmost  hill! 

Only  I  know  that  fate,  chance,  years  that  kill, 

Change  that  transmutes,  have  aimed  their  darts  at  us; 

Envying  each  lovely  shrine  and  amorous 

Reared  on  earth's  soil  by  man's  too  passionate  will. 

Dread  thou  the  moment  when  these  glittering  towers, 

These  adamantine  walls  and  gates  of  gems, 

Shall  fade  like  forms  of  sun-forsaken  cloud; 

When  dulled  by  imperceptible  chill  hours, 

The  golden  spires  of  our  Jerusalems 

Shall  melt  to  mist  and  vanish  in  night's  shroud! 

John  Addington  Symonds. 


THE  SUBLIME 

To  stand  upon  a  windy  pinnacle, 
Beneath  the  infinite  blue  of  the  blue  noon, 
And  underfoot  a  valley  terrible 
As  that  dim  gulf,  where  sense  and  being  swoon 
When  the  soul  parts;  a  giant  valley  strewn 
With  giant  rocks;  asleep,  and  vast,  and  still, 
And  far  away.  The  torrent,  which  has  hewn 
His  pathway  through  the  entrails  of  the  hill, 
Now  crawls  along  the  bottom  and  anon 
Lifts  up  his  voice,  a  muffled  tremulous  roar, 
Borne  on  the  wind  an  instant,  and  then  gone 
Back  to  the  caverns  of  the  middle  air; 
A  voice  as  of  a  nation  overthrown 
With  beat  of  drums,  when  hosts  have  marched  to  war. 
Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt  (1840 ). 


79 


A  NEW  PILGRIMAGE 
XXVIII 

YET  it  is  pitiful  how  friendships  die, 

Spite  of  our  oaths  and  eternal  high  vows. 

Some  fall  through  blite  of  tongues  wagged  secretly, 

Some  through  strife  loud  in  empty  honour's  house. 

Some  vanish  with  fame  got  too  glorious, 

And  rapt  to  heaven  in  fiery  chariots  fly; 

And  some  are  drowned  in  sloth  and  the  carouse 

Of  wedded  joys  and  long  love's  tyranny. 

O  ye,  who  with  high-hearted  valliance 

Deem  truth  eternal  and  youth's  dreams  divine, 

Keep  ye  from  love,  and  fame,  and  the  mischance 

Of  other  worship  than  the  Muses  nine. 

So  haply  shall  you  tread  life's  latest  strand 

With  a  true  brother  still,  and  hand  in  hand. 

Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt. 

WITH  ESTHER1 
II 

WHEN  I  hear  laughter  from  a  tavern  door, 

When  I  see  crowds  agape  and  in  the  rain 

Watching  on  tiptoe  and  with  stifled  roar 

To  see  a  rocket  fired  or  a  bull  slain, 

When  misers  handle  gold,  when  orators 

Touch  strong  men's  hearts  with  glory  till  they  weep, 

When  cities  deck  their  streets  for  barren  wars 

Which  have  laid  waste  their  youth,  and  when  I  keep 

Calmly  the  count  of  my  own  life,  and  see 

On  what  poor  stuff  my  manhood's  dreams  were  fed 

Till  I  too  learn'd  what  dole  of  vanity 

Will  serve  a  human  soul  for  daily  bread, 

—  Then  I  remember  that  I  once  was  young 

And  lived  with  Esther  the  world's  gods  among. 

Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt. 

1  Reprinted  from  Esther:  A  Young  Man's  Tragedy,  by  permission  of  the 
publishers,  Small,  Maynard  &  Company. 

80 


DON  QUIXOTE 

BEHIND  thy  pasteboard,  on  thy  battered  hack, 
Thy  lean  cheek  striped  with  plaster  to  and  fro, 
Thy  long  spear  levelled  at  the  unseen  foe, 
And  doubtful  Sancho  trudging  at  thy  back, 
Thou  wert  a  figure  strange  enough,  good  lack! 
To  make  Wiseacredom,  both  high  and  low, 
Rub  purblind  eyes,  and  (having  watched  thee  go) 
Despatch  its  Dogberrys  upon  thy  track: 
Alas!  poor  Knight!  Alas!  poor  soul  possest! 
Yet  would  to-day,  when  Courtesy  grows  chill 
And  life's  fine  loyalties  are  turned  to  jest, 
Some  fire  of  thine  might  burn  within  us  still! 
Ah!  would  but  one  might  lay  his  lance  in  rest, 
And  charge  in  earnest  —  were  it  but  a  mill. 

Austin  Dobson  (1840 ). 


LIFE  AND  DEATH 

FROM  morn  to  eve  they  struggled  —  Life  and  Death. 
At  first  it  seemed  to  me  that  they  in  mirth 
Contended,  and  as  foes  of  equal  worth, 
So  firm  their  feet,  so  undisturbed  their  breath. 
But  when  the  sharp  red  sun  cut  through  its  sheath 
Of  western  clouds,  I  saw  the  brown  arms'  girth 
Tighten  and  bear  that  radiant  form  to  earth, 
And  suddenly  both  fell  upon  the  heath. 
And  then  the  wonder  came  —  for  when  I  fled 
To  where  those  great  antagonists  down  fell 
I  could  not  find  the  body  that  I  sought, 
And  when  and  where  it  went  I  could  not  tell; 
One  only  form  was  left  of  those  who  fought, 
The  long  dark  form  of  Death,  and  it  was  dead. 

Cosmo  Monkhouse  (1840-1901). 


81 


THE  DEAD 

THE  dead  abide  with  us!  Though  stark  and  cold 

Earth  seems  to  grip  them,  they  are  with  us  still. 

They  have  forged  our  chains  of  being  for  good  or  ill; 

And  their  invisible  hands  these  hands  yet  hold. 

Our  perishable  bodies  are  the  mould 

In  which  their  strong  imperishable  will  — 

Mortality's  deep  yearning  to  fulfil  — 

Hath  grown  incorporate  through  dim  time  untold. 

Vibrations  infinite  of  life  in  death, 

As  a  star's  travelling  light  survives  its  star! 

So  may  we  hold  our  lives,  that  when  we  are 

The  fate  of  those  who  then  will  draw  this  breath, 

They  shall  not  drag  us  to  their  judgment-bar 

And  curse  the  heritage  which  we  bequeath. 

Mathilde  Blind  (1841-1896). 


JACOB  AND  THE  ANGEL 

For  a  design  by  J.  T.  Nettleship 

SHALL  he  not  bless  me?  Will  he  never  speak 
Those  words  of  proud  concession,  "Let  me  go: 
For  the  day  breaketh?  "  Wearily  and  slow 
The  shrouded  hours  troop  past  across  the  peak, 
Eastering;  and  I,  with  hands  grown  all  too  weak 
And  strength  that  would  have  failed  me  long  ago, 
But  for  the  set  soul,  strain  to  overthrow 
The  instant  God.  —  Alas!  ;t  is  I  that  speak  — 
Not  Jacob  —  I  that  in  this  night  of  days 
Do  wrestle  with  the  angel  Art,  till  breath 
And  gladness  fail  me.  Yet  the  stern  soul  stays 
And  will  not  loose  him  till  he  bless  me;  ay, 
Even  though  the  night  defer  my  victory 
Until  the  day  break  on  the  dawn  of  death. 

John  Payne  (1842 ). 

82 


WITH  A  COPY  OF  HENRY  VAUGHN'S 
SACRED  POEMS 

LAY  down  thy  burden  at  this  gate  and  knock. 

What  if  the  world  without  be  dark  and  drear? 

For  there  be  fountains  of  refreshment  here 

Sweeter  than  all  the  runnels  of  the  rock. 

Hark  I  even  to  thy  hand  upon  the  lock 

A  wilding  warble  answers,  loud  and  clear, 

That  falls  as  fain  upon  the  heart  of  fear 

As  shepherds'  song  unto  the  folded  flock. 

This  is  the  quiet  wood-church  of  the  soul. 

Be  thankful,  heart,  to  him  betimes  that  stole, 

Some  Easter  morning,  through  the  golden  door  — 

Haply  ajar  for  early  prayer  to  rise  — 

And  brought  thee  back  from  that  song-flowered  shore 

These  haunting  harmonies  of  Paradise. 

John  Payne. 


AWAKENING 

WITH  brain  o'erworn,  with  heart  a  summer  clod, 
With  eye  so  practised  in  each  form  around,  — 
And  all  forms  mean,  —  to  glance  above  the  ground 
Irks  it,  each  day  of  many  days  we  plod, 
Tongue-tied  and  deaf,  along  life's  common  road; 
But  suddenly,  we  know  not  how,  a  sound 
Of  living  streams,  an  odour,  a  flower  crowned 
With  dew,  a  lark  upspringing  from  the  sod, 
And  we  awake.  O  joy  of  deep  amaze! 
Beneath  the  everlasting  hills  we  stand, 
We  hear  the  voices  of  the  morning  seas, 
And  earnest  prophesyings  in  the  land, 
While  from  the  open  heaven  leans  forth  at  gaze 
The  encompassing  great  cloud  of  witnesses. 

Edward  Dowden  (1843-1918). 
83 


SEEKING  GOD 

I  SAID,  "I  will  find  God/'  and  forth  I  went 
To  seek  Him  in  the  clearness  of  the  sky. 
But  over  me  stood  unendurably 
Only  a  pitiless,  sapphire  firmament 
Ringing  the  world,  —  blank  splendour;  yet  intent 
Still  to  find  God,  "I  will  go  seek,"  said  I, 
"His  way  upon  the  waters/'  and  drew  nigh 
An  ocean  marge  weed-strewn  and  foam  besprent; 
And  the  waves  dashed  on  idle  sand  and  stone, 
And  very  vacant  was  the  long,  blue  sea; 
But  in  the  evening  as  I  sat  alone, 
My  window  opening  to  the  vanishing  day, 
Dear  God!  I  could  not  choose  but  kneel  and  pray, 
And  it  sufficed  that  I  was  found  of  Thee. 

Edward  Dowden. 


MY  LOVE  FOR  THEE  DOTH  MARCH  LIKE 
ARMED  MEN 

MY  love  for  thee  doth  march  like  arm&d  men 
Against  a  queenly  city  they  would  take. 
Along  the  army's  front  its  banners  shake; 
Across  the  mountains  and  the  sun-smit  plain 
It  steadfast  sweeps  as  sweeps  the  steadfast  rain; 
And  now  the  trumpet  makes  the  still  air  quake, 
And  now  the  thundering  cannon  doth  awake 
Echo  on  echo,  echoing  loud  again. 
But,  lo  —  the  conquest  higher  than  bard  had  sung; 
Instead  of  answering  cannon,  proud  surrender. 
Joyful  the  iron  gates  are  open  flung, 
And  for  the  conqueror,  welcome  gay  and  tender! 
O  bright  the  invader's  path  with  tribute  flowers, 
While  comrade  flags  flame  forth  on  walls  and  towers. 
Richard  Watson  Gilder  (1844-1909). 

84 


THE  ODYSSEY 

As  one  that  for  a  weary  space  has  lain 
Lulled  by  the  song  of  Circe  and  her  wine 
In  gardens  near  the  pale  of  Proserpine, 
Where  that  ^Egean  isle  forgets  the  main, 
And  only  the  low  lutes  of  love  complain, 
And  only  shadows  of  wan  lovers  pine, 
As  such  an  one  were  glad  to  know  the  brine 
Salt  on  his  lips,  and  the  large  air  again,  — 
So  gladly,  from  the  songs  of  modern  speech 
Men  turn,  and  see  the  stars,  and  feel  the  free 
Shrill  wind  beyond  the  close  of  heavy  flowers, 
And  through  the  music  of  the  languid  hours, 
They  hear  like  ocean  on  a  western  beach 
The  surge  and  thunder  of  the  Odyssey. 

Andrew  Lang  (1844-1912). 


TRANSFORMATION 

"GiVE  me  the  wine  of  happiness,"  I  cried, 
"The  bread  of  life!  —  O  ye  benign,  unknown, 

Immortal  powers!  —  I  crave  them  for  my  own; 

I  am  athirst,  I  will  not  be  denied 

Though  Hell  were  up  in  arms!"  No  sound  replied; 

But  turning  back  to  my  rude  board  and  lone, 

My  soul,  confounded,  there  beheld  —  a  stone, 

Pale  water  in  a  shallow  cup  beside! 

With  gushing  tears,  in  utter  hopelessness, 

I  stood  and  gazed.  Then  rose  a  voice  that  spoke,  — 
"God  gave  this,  too,  and  what  He  gave  will  bless!" 

And  'neath  the  hands  that  trembling  took  and  broke, 

Lo,  truly  a  sweet  miracle  divine, 

The  stone  turned  bread,  the  water  ruby  wine! 

Gertrude  Bloede  (1845-1905). 

85 


SUNKEN  GOLD1 

IN  dim  green  depths  rot  ingot-laden  ships; 

And  gold  doubloons,  that  from  the  drowned  hand  fell, 

Lie  nestled  in  the  ocean-flower's  bell 

With  love's  old  gifts,  once  kissed  by  long-drowned  lips; 

And  round  some  wrought  gold  cup  the  sea-grass  whips, 

And  hides  lost  pearls,  near  pearls  still  in  their  shell, 

Where  sea-weed  forests  fill  each  ocean  dell 

And  seek  dim  sunlight  with  their  restless  tips. 

So  lie  the  wasted  gifts,  the  long-lost  hopes 

Beneath  the  now  hushed  surface  of  myself, 

In  lonelier  depths  than  where  the  diver  gropes; 

They  lie  deep,  deep;  but  I  at  times  behold 

In  doubtful  glimpses,  on  some  reefy  shelf, 

The  gleam  of  irrecoverable  gold. 

Eugene  Lee-Hamilton  (1845-1907). 


SEA-SHELL  MURMURS 

THE  hollow  sea-shell  which  for  years  hath  stood 
On  dusty  shelves,  when  held  against  the  ear 
Proclaims  its  stormy  parent;  and  we  hear 
The  faint  far  murmur  of  the  breaking  flood. 
We  hear  the  sea.  The  sea?  It  is  the  blood 
In  our  own  veins,  impetuous  and  near, 
And  pulses  keeping  pace  with  hope  and  fear 
And  with  our  feelings'  ever  shifting  mood. 
Lo!  in  my  heart  I  hear,  as  in  a  shell, 
The  murmur  of  a  world  beyond  the  grave, 
Distinct,  distinct,  though  faint  and  far  it  be. 
Thou  fool!  this  echo  is  a  cheat  as  well,  — 
The  hum  of  earthly  instincts;  and  we  crave 
A  world  unreal  as  the  shell-heard  sea. 

Eugene  Lee-Hamilton. 

1  Reprinted  from  Sonnets  of  the  Wingless  Hours,  by  permission  of  the  pub- 
lisher, Elliot  Stock. 

86 


AFTER  SEVERANCE 

So  all  the  vows  of  friendship  which  we  swore 
Are  broke,  and  we  estranged,  at  distance  stand. 
Across  the  chasm  is  stretched  no  beckoning  hand 
Of  reconciliation.   Now,  no  more 
We  hold  sweet  talk  of  books  and  poets'  lore; 
The  current  of  a  discord,  cold,  austere, 
Widens  between  us,  year  by  bitter  year, 
And  each  drifts  further  from  the  other's  door. 
Thus  some  wide  summer  river  that  of  yore 
Floated  the  lover  to  his  mistress  dear 
Across  the  sunset  waters,  now  with  snows 
Engorged,  rough-packed  with  jagged  ice- wastes  drear, 
Barriers  the  way,  nor  intercourse  allows 
From  incommunicable  shore  to  shore. 

Lloyd  Mifflin  (1846 ). 


SUICIDE 

INVISIBLE  as  a  wind  along  the  sky, 
She  ever  wanders  o'er  the  earth  immense, 
A  spirit  of  beauty  but  malevolence, 
With  foot  unechoing  and  with  furtive  eye. 
She  loaths  and  shuns  all  haunts  where  peace  may  lie, 
Or  love,  and  every  joy  engendered  thence, 
Yet  prowls  to  wait,  with  wary  and  avid  sense, 
For  sorrow's  heaviest  and  most  burning  sigh! 
Then,  when  some  dreary  sufferer  darkly  fails 
To  find  in  life's  chill  heaven  one  starry  trace, 
One  hope  no  menace  of  despair  assails, 
Toward  him  she  steals  with  sure  insidious  pace, 
And  slowly  to  his  desperate  look  unveils 
The  maddening  glooms  and  splendors  of  her  face! 
Edgar  Fawcett  (1847-1904). 


87 


OTHER  WORLDS 

I  SOMETIMES  muse,  when  my  adventurous  gaze 

Has  roamed  the  starry  arches  of  the  night, 

That  were  I  dowered  with  strong  angelic  sight, 

All  would  look  changed  in  those  pale  heavenly  ways. 

What  wheeling  worlds  my  vision  would  amaze! 

What  chasms  of  gloom  would  thrill  me  and  affright! 

What  rhythmic  equipoise  would  rouse  delight! 

What  moons  would  beam  on  me,  what  suns  would  blaze! 

Then  through  my  awed  soul  sweeps  the  larger  thought 

Of  how  creation's  edict  may  have  set 

Vast  human  multitudes  on  those  far  spheres, 

With  towering  passions  to  which  mine  mean  naught, 

With  majesties  of  happiness,  or  yet 

With  agonies  of  unconjectured  tears! 

Edgar  Fawcett. 


PRESCIENCE  OF  DEATH1 

I  WONDER  oft  why  God,  who  is  so  good, 
Has  barred  so  close,  so  close  the  gates  of  death. 
I  stand  and  listen  with  suspended  breath 
While  night  and  silence  round  about  me  brood, 
If  then,  perchance,  some  spirit-whisper  would 
Grow  audible  and  pierce  my  torpid  sense, 
And  oft  I  feel  a  presence,  veiled,  intense, 
That  pulses  softly  through  the  solitude; 
But  as  my  soul  leaps  quivering  to  my  ear 
To  grasp  the  potent  message,  all  takes  flight, 
And  from  the  fields  and  woods  I  only  hear 
The  murmurous  chorus  of  the  summer  night. 
I  am  as  one  that's  dead  —  yet  in  his  gloom 
Feels  faintly  song  of  birds  above  his  tomb. 

Hjalmar  Hjorth  Boyesen  (1848-1895). 

1  Reprinted  from  Idyls  of  Norway,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 

88 


VENUS  OF  THE  LOUVRE 

DOWN  the  long  hall  she  glistens  like  a  star, 

The  foam-born  mother  of  Love,  transfixed  to  stone, 

Yet  none  the  less  immortal,  breathing  on. 

Time's  brutal  hand  hath  maimed  but  could  not  mar. 

When  first  the  enthralled  enchantress  from  afar 

Dazzled  mine  eyes,  I  saw  not  her  alone, 

Serenely  poised  on  her  world-worshipped  throne, 

As  when  she  guided  once  her  dove-drawn  car,  — 

But  at  her  feet  a  pale,  death-stricken  Jew, 

Her  life  adorer,  sobbed  farewell  to  love. 

Here  Heine  wept!  Here  still  he  weeps  anew, 

Nor  ever  shall  his  shadow  lift  or  move, 

While  mourns  one  ardent  heart,  one  poet-brain, 

For  vanished  Hellas  and  Hebraic  pain. 

Emma  Lazarus  (1849-1887). 


SUCCESS 

OFT  have  I  brooded  on  defeat  and  pain, 
The  pathos  of  the  stupid,  stumbling  throng. 
These  I  ignore  to-day  and  only  long 
To  pour  my  soul  forth  in  one  trumpet  strain, 
One  clear,  grief-shattering,  triumphant  song, 
For  all  the  victories  of  man's  high  endeavor, 
Palm-bearing,  laurelled  deeds  that  live  forever, 
The  splendor  clothing  him  whose  will  is  strong. 
Hast  thou  beheld  the  deep,  glad  eyes  of  one 
Who  has  persisted  and  achieved?  Rejoice! 
On  naught  diviner  shines  the  all-seeing  sun. 
Salute  him  with  free  heart  and  choral  voice, 
'Midst  flippant,  feeble  crowds  of  spectres  wan, 
The  bold,  significant,  successful  man. 

Emma  Lazarus. 


EPITHALAMIUM 

HIGH  in  the  organ-loft,  with  lillied  hair, 

Love  plied  the  pedals  with  his  snowy  foot, 

Pouring  forth  music  like  the  scent  of  fruit, 

And  stirring  all  the  incense-laden  air; 

We  knelt  before  the  altar's  gold  rail,  where 

The  priest  stood  robed,  with  chalice  and  palm-shoot, 

With  music-men,  who  bore  citole  and  lute, 

Behind  us,  and  the  attendant  virgins  fair; 

And  so  our  red  aurora  flashed  to  gold, 

Our  dawn  to  sudden  sun,  and  all  the  while 

The  high-voiced  children  trebled  clear  and  cold, 

The  censer-boys  went  singing  down  the  aisle, 

And  far  above,  with  fingers  strong  and  sure, 

Love  closed  our  lives'  triumphant  overture. 

Edmund  W.  Gosse  (1849 ). 


THREE  SONNETS  OF  SORROW1 
I 

A  CHILD,  with  mystic  eyes  and  flowing  hair, 
I  saw  her  first,  'mid  flowers  that  shared  her  grace: 
Though  but  a  boy,  I  cried,  "How  fair  a  face!" 
And,  coming  nearer,  told  her  she  was  fair. 
She  faintly  smiled,  yet  did  not  say,  "Forbear"! 
But  seemed  to  take  a  pleasure  in  my  praise. 
She  led  my  steps  through  many  a  leafy  place 
And  pointed  where  shy  birds  and  flowers  were. 
At  length  we  stood  upon  a  brooklet's  brink  — 
I  seem  to  hear  its  sources  babbling  yet  — 
She  gave  me  water  from  her  hand  to  drink, 
The  while  her  eyes  upon  its  flow  were  set. 
"Thy  name?"  I  asked;  she  answered  low,  "Regret," 
Then  faded  as  the  sun  began  to  sink. 

Philip  Bourke  Marston  (1850-1887). 

1  The  two  sonnets  by  Philip  Bourke  Marston  are  reprinted  from  his  Col- 
lected Poems,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Little,  Brown  &  Company. 

90 


LOVE  AND  MUSIC 

I  LISTENED  to  the  music  broad  and  deep: 
I  heard  the  tenor  in  an  ecstasy 
Touch  the  sweet,  distant  goal;  I  heard  the  cry 
Of  prayer  and  passion;  and  I  heard  the  sweep 
Of  mighty  wings,  that  in  their  waving  keep 
The  music  that  the  spheres  make  endlessly,  — 
Then  my  cheek  quivered,  tears  made  blind  mine  eye; 
As  flame  to  flame  I  felt  the  quick  blood  leap, 
And,  through  the  tides  and  moonlit  winds  of  sound, 
To  me  love's  passionate  voice  grew  audible. 
Again  I  felt  thy  heart  to  my  heart  bound, 
Then  silence  on  the  viols  and  voices  fell; 
But,  like  the  still,  small  voice  within  a  shell, 
I  heard  Love  thrilling  through  the  void  profound. 
Philip  Bourke  Marston. 


A  PRAYER  FOR  PEACE 

NEARER  the  eagles  swoop  in  darkening  rings, 
Death  scents  his  awful  quarry  from  afar, 
While  men  in  millions  march  to  bloody  war 
Hateless,  unhated,  at  the  word  of  Kings: 
But  somewhere  hid  beneath  his  secret  wings 
The  sons  of  God,  before  a  juster  bar, 
Plead  in  his  name  who  bore  the  cross  and  scar 
For  Love  that  sees  clear-eyed  what  war-lust  brings. 
Plead  on,  ye  seers  with  love-enlightened  eyes, 
Hold  up  your  hands  to  where  the  angels  gaze 
With  deep  compassion  on  our  human  strife; 
Prayer  moves  the  world  with  power  beyond  amaze, 
And  they  who  look  above  this  mortal  life 
Know  Peace  on  earth,  in  Heaven  hath  great  allies. 
Hardwicke  Drummond  Rawnsley  (1851 ). 


91 


THE  ASSIGNATION 

THE  darkness  throbbed  that  night  with  the  great  heat, 

And  my  heart  throbbed  at  thought  of  what  should  be; 

The  house  was  dumb,  the  lock  slid  silently; 

I  only  heard  the  night's  hot  pulses  beat 

Around  me  as  I  sped  with  quiet  feet 

Down  the  dark  corridors,  and  once  the  sea 

Moaned  in  its  slumber,  and  I  stayed,  but  she 

Came  forth  to  meet  me  lily-white  and  sweet. 

Was  there  a  man's  soul  ever  worth  her  kiss? 

Silent  and  still  I  stood,  and  she  drew  near, 

And  her  lips  mixed  with  mine,  and  her  sweet  breath 

Fanned  my  hot  face;  and  afterward  I  wis, 

What  the  sea  said  to  us  I  did  not  hear; 

But  now  I  know  it  spake  of  Doom  and  Death. 

Herbert  E.  Clarke  (1852 ). 


BEYOND? 

WHAT  lies  beyond  the  splendour  of  the  sun, 
Beyond  his  flashing  belt  of  sister-spheres? 
What  deeps  are  they  whereinto  disappears 
The  visitant  comet's  sword,  of  fire  fine-spun? 
What  rests  beyond  the  myriad  lights  that  run 
Their  nightly  race  around  our  human  fears? 
Hope-signals  raised  on  multitudinous  spears 
Of  armies,  captained  by  the  Eternal  One? 
Beyond  the  sun,  and  far  beyond  the  stars, 
Beyond  the  weariness  of  this  our  day, 
Beyond  this  fretting  at  the  prison-bars, 
The  urgent  soul,  divine  in  soulless  clay, 
Bids  us  set  forth,  through  endless  avatars, 
To  seek  where  God  has  hidden  Himself  away. 
George  Arthur  Greene  (1853-  • 


92 


RENOUNCEMENT 

I  MUST  not  think  of  thee;  and,  tired  yet  strong, 

I  shun  the  thought  that  lurks  in  all  delight  — 

The  thought  of  thee  —  and  in  the  blue  Heaven's  height, 

And  in  the  sweetest  passage  of  a  song. 

Oh!  just  beyond  the  fairest  thoughts  that  throng 

This  breast,  the  thought  of  thee  waits,  hidden  yet  bright; 

But  it  must  never,  never  come  in  sight; 

I  must  stop  short  of  thee  the  whole  day  long. 

But  when  sleep  comes  to  close  each  difficult  day, 

When  night  gives  pause  to  the  long  watch  I  keep, 

And  all  my  bonds  I  needs  must  loose  apart, 

Must  doff  my  will  as  raiment  laid  away,  — 

With  the  first  dream  that  comes  with  the  first  sleep 

I  run,  I  run,  I  am  gathered  to  thy  heart. 

Alice  Meynell  (1853 ). 


NO  MORE  THESE  PASSION-WORN  FACES 
SHALL  MEN'S  EYES 

No  more  these  passion-worn  faces  shall  men's  eyes 
Behold  in  life.  Death  leaves  no  trace  behind 
Of  their  wild  hate  and  wilder  love,  grown  blind 
In  desperate  longing,  more  than  the  foam  which  lies 
Splashed  up  awhile  where  the  showered  spray  descries 
The  waves  whereto  their  cold  limbs  were  resigned; 
Yet  ever  doth  the  sea-wind's  undefined 
Vague  wailing  shudder  with  their  dying  sighs. 
For  all  men's  souls  twixt  sorrow  and  love  are  cast, 
As  on  the  earth  each  lingers  his  brief  space, 
While  surely  nightfall  comes  where  each  man's  face 
In  death's  obliteration  sinks  at  last, 
As  a  deserted  wind-tossed  sea's  foam  trace  — 
Life's  chilled  boughs  emptied  by  death's  autumn  blast. 
Oliver  Madox  Brown  (1855-1874). 

93 


GENIUS  LOCI1 

PEACE,  shepherd,  peace!   What  boots  it  singing  on? 

Since  long  ago  grace-giving  Phoebus  died, 

And  all  the  train  that  loved  the  stream-bright  side 

Of  the  poetic  mount  with  him  are  gone 

Beyond  the  shores  of  Styx  and  Acheron, 

In  unexplored  realms  of  night  to  hide. 

The  clouds  that  strew  their  shadows  far  and  wide 

Are  all  of  Heaven  that  visits  Helicon. 

Yet  here,  where  never  muse  or  god  did  haunt, 

Still  may  some  nameless  power  of  Nature  stray, 

Pleased  with  the  reedy  stream's  continual  chaunt 

And  purple  pomp  of  these  broad  fields  in  May. 

The  shepherds  meet  him  where  he  herds  the  kine, 

And  careless  pass  him  by  whose  is  the  gift  divine. 

Margaret  L.  Woods  (1856 ). 


HER  CHOICE2 

"BEHOLD!  it  is  a  draught  from  Lethe's  wave. 
Thy  voice  of  weeping  reacheth  even  that  strand 
Washed  by  strange  waters  in  Elysian  land; 
I  bring  the  peace  thy  weary  soul  doth  crave. 
Drink,  and  from  vain  regret  thy  future  save." 
She  lifted  deep,  dark  eyes  wherein  there  lay 
The  sacred  sorrow  of  love's  ended  day, 
Then  took  the  chalice  from  the  angel's  hand. 
Life  with  new  love,  or  life  with  memory 
Of  the  old  love?  Her  heart  made  instant  choice; 
Like  tender  music  rang  the  faithful  voice: 

"  0  sweet  my  love,  an  offering  to  thee!" 
And  with  brave  smile,  albeit  the  tears  flowed  fast, 
Upon  the  earth  the  priceless  draught  she  cast. 

Eliza  Calvert  Hall  (1856 ). 

1  Reprinted  from  Collected  Poems,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  John 
Lane  Company. 

2  Reprinted  from  Century  Magazine,  by  permission  of  the  Editors. 

94 


TEARS 

WHEN  I  consider  Life  and  its  few  years  — 

A  wisp  of  fog  betwixt  us  and  the  sun; 

A  call  to  battle,  and  the  battle  done 

Ere  the  last  echo  dies  within  our  ears; 

A  rose  choked  in  the  grass;  an  hour  of  fears; 

The  gusts  that  past  a  darkening  shore  do  beat; 

The  burst  of  music  down  an  unlistening  street  — 

I  wonder  at  the  idleness  of  tears. 

Ye  old,  old  dead,  and  ye  of  yesternight, 

Chieftains,  and  bards,  and  keepers  of  the  sheep, 

By  every  cup  of  sorrow  that  you  had, 

Loose  me  from  tears,  and  make  me  see  aright 

How  each  hath  back  what  once  he  stayed  to  weep: 

Homer  his  sight,  David  his  little  lad. 

Lizette  Woodworth  Reese  (1856 ). 


HISTORY 

DARKLY,  as  by  some  gloomed  mirror  glassed, 
Herein  at  times  the  brooding  eye  beholds 
The  great  scarred  visage  of  the  pompous  Past; 
But  oftener  only  the  embroidered  folds 
And  soiled  regality  of  his  rent  robe, 
Whose  tattered  skirts  are  ruined  dynasties 
And  cumber  with  their  trailing  pride  the  globe, 
And  sweep  the  dusty  ages  in  our  eyes; 
Till  the  world  seems  a  world  of  husks  and  bones 
Where  sightless  Seers  and  Immortals  dead, 
Kings  that  remember  not  their  awful  thrones, 
Invincible  armies  long  since  vanquished, 
And  powerless  potentates  and  foolish  sages 
Lie  'mid  the  crumbling  of  the  massy  ages. 

William  Watson  (1858 


95 


FRIEND,  WHO  IN  THESE  SAD  NUMBERS 
DOST  DEPLORE 

To  an  American  Poet  after  reading  his  "  Dirge  on  the  Violation 
of  the  Panama  Treaty  " 

FRIEND,  who  in  these  sad  numbers  dost  deplore 
A  faithless  deed:  because  I  love  thy  land, 
That  gave  to  me  of  late  so  hearty  a  hand, 
In  thronged  Manhattan,  or  amid  the  roar 
Of  that  loud  city  on  Michigan's  still  shore, 
Therefore  do  I  rejoice  that  one  pure  band 
Keep  not  ignoble  silence,  but  withstand 
Ev'n  Her,  their  mother,  when  she  shuts  the  door 
In  Honour's  face.  So  Chatham,  whose  free  speech 
Yet  rings  through  Time — so  Wordsworth,  whose  free  song 
Comes  blowing  from  his  mountains  —  dared  to  impeach 
Their  England,  speaking  out  for  Man.  And  long 
May  Earth  breed  men  like  these,  who  scorned  to  teach 
That  Power  can  shift  the  bounds  of  Right  and  Wrong. 

William  Watson. 

RIZPAH  * 

BLOWN  through  the  gusty  spaces  of  the  night, 

The  pale  clouds  fleet  like  ghosts  along  the  sky; 

A  fitful  wind  goes  moaning  feebly  by, 

And  the  faint  moon,  poised  o'er  the  craggy  height, 

Dies  in  its  own  uncertain,  misty  light. 

Within  the  hills  the  water-springs  are  dry; 

The  herbs  are  withered;  and  the  sand-wastes  lie 

Dim,  wide,  and  lonely  to  the  weary  sight. 

Behold!  her  awful  vigil  she  will  keep 

Through  the  wan  night  as  through  the  burning  day; 

Though  all  the  world  should  sleep  she  will  not  sleep, 

But  watch,  wild-eyed  and  fierce,  to  scare  away, 

As  round  and  round,  with  hoarse,  low  cries  they  creep, 

From  her  dead  sons  the  hungry  beasts  of  prey. 

James  B.  Kenyan  (1858 ). 

i  The  two  sonnets  by  James  B.  Kenyon  are  reprinted  from  In  Realms  of 
Gold,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Cassell  &  Company,  Limited. 


THE  TRAVELLER 

WHEN  in  the  dark  we  slowly  drift  away 
O'er  unknown  seas,  and  busy  thoughts  at  last 
Are  quieted,  and  all  the  cares  are  past 
That,  bandit-like,  infest  the  realms  of  day  — 
To  what  pale  country  does  the  spirit  stray? 
Within  what  wan  lit  land,  what  regions  vast, 
Does  this  strange  traveller  travel  far  and  fast, 
Till  in  the  east  the  day  breaks,  cold  and  gray? 
Ah,  tell  me,  when  we  slumber,  whither  goes, 
And  whence  at  waking  comes,  the  silent  guest, 
Whose  face  no  man  hath  seen,  whom  no  man  knows  — 
The  dim  familiar  of  each  human  breast? 
Behold,  at  length,  when  day  indeed  shall  close, 
Will  this  uneasy  traveller,  too,  have  rest? 

James  B.  Kenyan. 

LOVE'S  VARLETS 

LOVE,  he  is  nearer  (though  the  moralist 
Of  rule  and  line  cry  shame  on  me),  more  near 
To  thee  and  to  the  heart  of  thee,  be't  wist, 
Who  sins  against  thee  even  for  the  dear 
Lack  that  he  hath  of  thee;  than  who,  chill-wrapt 
In  thy  light-thought-on  customed  livery, 
Keeps  all  thy  laws  with  formal  service  apt, 
Save  that  great  law  to  tremble  and  to  be 
Shook  to  his  heart-strings  if  there  do  but  pass 
The  rumour  of  thy  pinions.  Such  one  is 
Thy  varlet,  guerdoned  with  the  daily  mass 
That  feed  on  thy  remainder-meats  of  bliss. 
More  hath  he  of  thy  bosom,  whose  slips  of  grace 
Fell  through  despair  of  thy  close  gracious  face. 

Francis  Thompson  (1859-1907). 


97 


THE  CONTRAST 

HE  loved  her;  having  felt  his  love  begin 
With  that  first  look,  —  as  lover  oft  avers. 
He  made  pale  flowers  his  pleading  ministers, 
Impressed  sweet  music,  drew  the  springtime  in 
To  serve  his  suit;  but  when  he  could  not  win, 
Forgot  her  face  and  those  gray  eyes  of  hers; 
And  at  her  name  his  pulse  no  longer  stirs, 
And  Me  goes  on  as  if  she  had  not  been. 
She  never  loved  him;  but  she  loved  Love  so, 
So  reverenced  Love,  that  all  her  being  shook 
At  his  demand  whose  entrance  she  denied. 
Her  thoughts  of  him  such  tender  color  took 
As  western  skies  that  keep  the  afterglow. 
The  words  he  spoke  were  with  her  till  she  died. 
Helen  Gray  Cone  (1859 


AN  UNPRAISED  PICTURE1 

I  SAW  a  picture  once  by  Angelo,  — 
"Unfinished,"  said  the  critic,  "done  in  youth,"  — 
And  that  was  all,  no  thought  of  praise,  forsooth! 
He  was  informed,  and  doubtless  it  was  so. 
And  yet  I  let  an  hour  of  dreaming  go 
The  way  of  all  time,  touched  to  tears  and  ruth, 
Passion  and  joy,  the  prick  of  conscience's  tooth, 
Before  that  careworn  Christ's  divine,  soft  glow. 
The  painter's  yearning  with  an  unsure  hand 
Had  moved  me  more  than  might  his  master  days: 
He  seemed  to  speak  like  one  whose  Mecca-land 
Is  first  beheld,  tho'  faint  and  far  the  ways; 
Who  may  not  then  his  shaken  voice  command 
Yet  trembles  forth  a  word  of  prayer  and  praise. 

Richard  E.  Burton  (1859 ). 

1  Reprinted  from  Dumb  in  June,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Lothrop, 
Lee  &  Shepard  Company. 


AMERICA  TO  ENGLAND,  1900  * 

THE  nightmare  melts  at  last,  and  London  wakes 

To  her  old  habit  of  victorious  ease. 

More  men,  and  more,  and  more  for  over-seas, 

More  guns  until  the  giant  hammer  breaks 

That  patriot  folk  whom  even  God  forsakes. 

Shall  not  great  England  work  her  will  on  these, 

The  foolish  little  nations,  and  appease 

An  angry  shame  that  in  her  memory  aches? 

But  far  beyond  the  fierce-contested  flood, 

The  cannon-planted  pass,  the  shell-torn  town, 

The  last  wild  carnival  of  fire  and  blood, 

Beware,  beware  that  dim  and  awful  Shade, 

Armored  with  Milton's  sword  and  Cromwell's  frown, 

Affronted  freedom,  of  her  own  betrayed! 

Katherine  Lee  Bates  (1859 ). 

THE  REST  IS  SILENCE 
II 

EAGER  and  shy,  as  when  among  her  peers 

A  girl  will  pour  her  confidence,  she  told, 

In  voice  where  laughter  ran  a  thread  of  gold, 

A  history  all  novel  to  our  ears. 

Her  blissful  eyes  oblivious  of  tears, 

With  lingering  touch  she  one  by  one  unrolled 

Her  bridal  memories  from  fold  on  fold 

Of  fragrant  silence.  Dead  these  fifty  years 

Was  he  with  whom,  young  hand  in  hand,  she  went 

To  their  first  home,  which  simple  neighbor-folk 

Had  filled  with  garden-bloom  and  forest  scent; 

Yet  still  of  him,  and  that  June  path  they  fared, 

Those  welcoming  flowers,  her  failing  accents  spoke; 

—  Of  how  Love  led  her  to  a  place  prepared. 

Katherine  Lee  Bates. 

1  The  two  sonnets  by  Katherine  Lee  Bates  are  reprinted  from  America  the 
Beautiful,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Thomas  Y.  Crowell  Company. 

99 


THE  CUP  OF  LIFE1 

ONE  after  one  the  high  emotions  fade; 

Time's  wheeling  measure  empties  and  refills 

Year  after  year;  we  seek  no  more  the  hills 

That  lured  our  youth  divine  and  unafraid, 

But  swarming  on  some  common  highway,  made 

Beaten  and  smooth,  plod  onward  with  blind  feet; 

And  only  where  the  crowded  crossways  meet 

We  halt  and  question,  anxious  and  dismayed. 

Yet  can  we  not  escape  it;  some  we  know 

Have  angered  and  grown  mad,  some  scornfully  laughed; 

Yet  surely  to  each  lip  —  to  mine,  to  thine  — 

Comes  with  strange  scent  and  pallid  poisonous  glow 

The  cup  of  Life,  that  dull  Circean  draught, 

That  taints  us  all,  and  turns  the  half  to  swine. 

Archibald  Lampman  (1861-1899). 

THE  LARGEST  LIFE 
II 

NAY,  never  once  to  feel  we  are  alone, 
While  the  great  human  heart  around  us  lies: 
To  make  the  smile  on  other  lips  our  own, 
To  live  upon  the  light  in  others'  eyes: 
To  breathe  without  a  doubt  the  limpid  air 
Of  that  most  perfect  love  that  knows  no  pain: 
To  say  —  I  love  you  —  only,  and  not  care 
„  Whether  the  love  come  back  to  us  again, 
Divinest  self-forgetfulness,  at  first 
A  task,  then  a  tonic,  then  a  need; 
To  greet  with  open  hands  the  best  and  worst, 
And  only  for  another's  wound  to  bleed: 
This  is  to  see  the  beauty  that  God  meant, 
Wrapped  round  with  life,  ineffably  content. 

Archibald  Lampman. 

*  The  two  sonnets  by  Archibald  Lampman  are  reprinted  from  his  Poems 
(Morang  &  Company),  by  permission  of  the  executors  of  the  Lampman  estate. 


100 


TO  PAIN1 

NOT  by  the  minutes  of  thin  torture  spun, 
Not  by  the  nights  whose  hours  halt  and  slip  back, 
Not  by  the  days  when  golden  noon  turns  black, 
Hast  thou  dismayed  me;  but  that,  one  by  one, 
Pale  shadows  pass  me  of  my  tasks  undone, 
While,  like  a  victim  loosed  from  wheel  and  rack, 
With  will  unnerved,  breath  scant  and  sinew  slack, 
I  droop,  where  glad  folk  labour  in  the  sun. 
And  yet,  O  winged  Inquisitor,  return, 
Stay,  though  I  cringe  and  cry  and  plead  for  grace, 
If  thou  hast  more  to  teach,  still  would  I  learn; 
I  choose,  even  with  faint  heart  and  quivering  lip, 
Some  place  in  the  great,  patient  fellowship 
Of  those  that  know  the  light  upon  thy  face. 

Sophie  Jewett  (1861-1909). 


TO  W.  P.2 
II 

WITH  you  a  part  of  me  hath  passed  away; 

For  in  the  peopled  forest  of  my  mind 

A  tree  made  leafless  by  this  wintry  wind 

Shall  never  don  again  its  green  array. 

Chapel  and  fireside,  country  road  and  bay, 

Have  something  of  their  friendliness  resigned; 

Another,  if  I  would,  I  could  not  find, 

And  I  am  grown  much  older  in  a  day. 

But  yet  I  treasure  in  my  memory 

Your  gift  of  charity,  your  mellow  ease, 

And  the  dear  honour  of  your  amity; 

For  these  once  mine,  my  life  is  rich  with  these. 

And  I  scarce  know  which  part  may  greater  be,  — 

What  I  keep  of  you,  or  you  rob  from  me. 

George  Santayana  (1863 ) . 

>  Reprinted  from  Poems,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Thomas  Y. 
Crowell  Company. 

2  The  two  sonnets  by  George  Santayana  are  reprijite^rfrom,  Bonnets  an^ 
Other  Verse,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Duffieid  &  Company. 

101  '•  :• 


SONNETS 
XX 

THESE  strewn  thoughts,  by  the  mountain  pathway 

sprung, 

I  conned  for  comfort,  till  I  ceased  to  grieve, 
And  with  these  flowering  thorns  I  dare  to  weave 
The  crown,  great  Mother,  on  thine  altar  hung. 
Teach  thou  a  larger  speech  to  my  loosed  tongue, 
And  to  mine  opened  eyes  thy  secrets  give, 
That  in  thy  perfect  love  I  learn  to  live, 
And  in  thine  immortality  be  young. 
The  soul  is  not  on  earth  an  alien  thing 
That  hath  her  life's  rich  sources  otherwhere; 
She  is  a  parcel  of  the  sacred  air. 
She  takes  her  being  from  the  breath  of  Spring, 
The  glance  of  Phoebus  is  her  font  of  light, 
And  her  long  sleep  a  draught  of  primal  night. 

George  Santayana. 

NOVEMBER  * 

HARK  you  such  sound  as  quivers?  Kings  will  hear, 

As  kings  have  heard,  and  tremble  on  their  thrones; 

The  old  will  feel  the  weight  of  mossy  stones; 

The  young  alone  will  laugh  and  scoff  at  fear. 

It  is  the  tread  of  armies  marching  near, 

From  scarlet  lands  to  lands  forever  pale; 

It  is  a  bugle  dying  down  the  gale; 

It  is  the  sudden  gushing  of  a  tear. 

And  it  is  hands  that  grope  at  ghostly  doors; 

And  romp  of  spirit  children  on  the  pave; 

It  is  the  tender  sighing  of  the  brave 

Who  fell,  ah!  long  ago,  in  futile  wars; 

It  is  such  sound  as  death;  and,  after  all, 

?T  is  but  the  forest  letting  dead  leaves  fall. 

Mahlon  Leonard  Fisher  (1874 )• 

1  Reprinted  by  permission  from  Braithwaite's  Anthology  of  Magazine  Versi 
jtr  1913.  Th3  sonnet  was  originally  published  in  The  BeUman. 

102 


DOORS 

LIKE  a  young  child  who  to  his  mother's  door 

Runs  eager  for  the  welcoming  embrace, 

And  finds  the  door  shut,  and  with  troubled  face 

Calls  and  through  sobbing  calls,  and  o'er  and  o'er 

Calling,  storms  at  the  panel  —  so  before 

A  door  that  will  not  open,  sick  and  numb, 

I  listen  for  a  word  that  will  not  come, 

And  know  at  last  I  may  not  enter  more. 

Silence!  And  through  the  silence  and  the  dark 

By  that  closed  door,  the  distant  sob  of  tears 

Beats  on  my  spirit,  as  on  fairy  shores 

The  spectral  sea;  and  through  the  sobbing,  hark! 

Down  the  fair-chambered  corridor  of  years, 

The  quiet  shutting,  one  by  one,  of  doors. 

Herman  Hagedorn  (1882 ). 


THE  SOLDIER1 

IF  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me: 

That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 

That  is  forever  England.  There  shall  be 

In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed; 

A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  aware, 

Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam, 

A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English  air, 

Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 

A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 

Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  England  given; 

Her  sights  and  sounds;  dreams  happy  as  her  day; 

And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends;  and  gentleness, 

In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 

Rupert  Brooke  (1887-1916). 

1  Reprinted  from  Poetry,  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  by  permission  of  the  Editor. 
103 


TO  MRS.  HYNDMAN1 
JULY  1,  1913 

MOTHER  of  those  whose  need  of  mothering 
Made  them  your  children!  By  your  open  grave 
High  summer  speaks  with  voice  tall  poplars  have 
At  noon,  and  larks  have  found  a  place  to  sing, 
Though  round  July;s  blue  mirror  coil  and  cling 
The  factory's  dark  breath.   For  you,  who  gave 
Love-labour,  yet  more  men  shall  live  to  save 
The  seed  of  men  from  Mammon's  harvesting. 
Wherefore  I  think  you  would  not  have  us  weep 
That  stand  together  here,  and  in  the  sun 
Look  last  on  you,  who,  from  long  labour,  won 
This  quiet  ground's  full  heritage  of  sleep, 
But  tears  within  the  heart  would  have  us  keep, 
That  human  love  like  yours  grows  fresh  upon. 

John  Helston.  * 

DEAF 

THESE  have  I  lost:  now  cushats  only  call 
In  long-lost  groves  down  vales  of  memory; 
And  cuckoos  sing  in  springs  that  used  to  be; 
While  owls  go  hooting,  weirdly  musical, 
'Neath  purple  nights  that  have  been  buried  all 
In  the  dark  tomb  of  years;  and  ceaselessly 
The  singing  rills  reecho  from  a  sea 
Where  long  ago  they  found  their  funeral. 
And  thro'  the  dusty  crannies  of  my  heart 
The  winds  go  wailing;  and  the  dancing  leaves 
Beat  their  fine  joys  behind  my  closed  eyes; 
While  in  a  secret  storehouse  set  apart 
I  hear  the  sobbing  of  a  sea  that  grieves, 
And  of  a  little  summer  wind  that  dies. 

H.  M.  Waithman. 

1  Reprinted  from  Aphrodite,  and  Other  Poems,  by  permission  of  the  pub- 
lishers, The  Macmillan  Company. 

104 


THE  PENALTY  OF  LOVE1 

IF  Love  should  count  you  worthy,  and  should  deign 
One  day  to  seek  your  door  and  be  your  guest, 
Pause!  ere  you  draw  the  bolt  and  bid  him  rest, 
If  in  your  old  content  you  would  remain. 
For  not  alone  he  enters:  in  his  train 
Are  angels  of  the  mists,  the  lonely  quest, 
Dreams  of  the  unfulfilled,  the  unpossessed; 
And  sorrow,  and  Life's  immemorial  pain. 
He  wakes  desires  you  never  may  forget, 
He  shows  you  stars  you  never  saw  before, 
He  makes  you  share  with  him,  for  evermore, 
The  burden  of  the  world's  divine  regret. 
How  wise  were  you  to  open  not!  —  and  yet, 
How  poor  if  you  should  turn  him  from  the  door! 

Sidney  Royse  Lysaght. 

1  Reprinted  from  Poems  of  the  Unknown  Way,  by  permission  of  the  pub- 
lishers, The  Macmillan  Company. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

ALDBICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY 75,  76 

ARNOLD,  MATTHEW 58 

AUSTIN,  ALFRED 75 

BARNES,  BARNABE 18 

BATES,  KATHERINE  LEE 99 

BLANCHARD,  SAMUEL  LAMAN 43 

BLIND,  MATHILDE 82 

BLOEDE,  GERTRUDE 85 

BLUNT,  WILFRID  SCAWEN 79,  80 

BOWLES,  WILLIAM  LISLE 27 

BOYESEN,  HJALMAR  HJORTH 88 

BROOKE,  RUPERT 103 

BROWN,  OLIVER  MADOX 93 

BROWNE,  WILLIAM 21 

BROWNING,  ELIZABETH  BARRETT 49,  50,  51 

BURTON,  "RICHARD  E 98 

BYRON,  LORD 35 

CLARE,  JOHN 38 

CLARKE,  HERBERT  E 92 

CLOUGH,  ARTHUR  HUGH 56 

COLERIDGE,  HARTLEY 41 

COLERIDGE,  SAMUEL  TAYLOR 32 

CONE,  HELEN  GRAY 98 

CONSTABLE,  HENRY 9 

COWPER,  WILLIAM 26 

CRANCH,  CHRISTOPHER  P 54 

DANIEL,  SAMUEL 9,  10 

DE  VERB,  SIR  AUBREY 35,  36 

DE  VERE,  AUBREY,  THE  YOUNGER 55 

DOBELL,  SYDNEY 60 

DOBSON,  AUSTIN 81 

DONNE,  JOHN 18,  19 

DORR,  JULIA  C.  R 61 

DOWDEN,  EDWARD 83,  84 

DRAYTON,  MICHAEL 11 

DRUMMOND,  WILLIAM 19,  20 

107 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

FABEB,  FREDERICK  WILLIAM 54 

FANE,  JULIAN  HENRY 63 

FAWCETT,  EDGAR 87,  88 

FISHER,  M AHLON  LEONARD 102 

GARNETT,  RICHARD 73,  74 

GILDER,  RICHARD  WATSON 84 

GOSSE,  EDMUND  W 90 

GRAY,  THOMAS 25 

GREENE,  GEORGE  ARTHUR 92 

GREENE,  ROBERT 8 

HAGEDORN,  HERMAN 103 

HALL,  ELIZA  CALVERT 94 

HALLAM,  ARTHUR  HENRY 52 

HELSTON,  JOHN 104 

HEMANS,  FELICIA  DOROTHEA 37 

HERBERT,  GEORGE 21 

HOOD,  THOMAS 42 

HUNT,  LEIGH 34 

INGELOW,  JEAN 57 

JACKSON,  HELEN  HUNT 71 

JEWETT,  SOPHIE 101 

KEATS,  JOHN 38, 39,  40 

KENYON,  JAMES  B 96, 97 

LAMPMAN,  ARCHIBALD 100 

LANG,  ANDREW 85 

LAZARUS,  EMMA  89 

LEE-HAMILTON,  EUGENE 86 

LODGE,  THOMAS 8 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADSWORTH 43,  44, 45 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL 56 

LYSAGHT,  SIDNEY  ROYSE 105 

MARSTON,  PHILIP  BOURKE 90,  91 

MEREDITH,  GEORGE 67,  68 

MEYNELL,  ALICE 93 

MIFFLIN,  LLOYD 87 

MILTON,  JOHN 22,  23,  24 

MONKHOUSE,  COSMO 81 

MOULTON,  LOUISE  CHANDLER 74 

NEWMAN,  CARDINAL 42 

PATON,  SIR  NOEL 57 

PAYNE,  JOHN 82, 83 

108 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

PFEIFFER,  EMILY 62 

POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN 48 

PROCTER,  ADELAIDE  A 61 

RALEIGH,  SIR  WALTER 5 

RAWNSLEY,  HARDWICKE  DRUMMOND 91 

REESE,  LIZETTE  WOODWORTH 95 

ROSCOE,  WILLIAM  CALDWELL 59 

ROSSETTI,  CHRISTINA  G 69,  70 

ROSSETTI,  DANTE  GABRIEL 63,  64,  65,  66,  67 

ROSSETTI,  WILLIAM  MICHAEL 69 

SANTAYANA,  GEORGE 101,  102 

SCOTT,  WILLIAM  BELL 53 

SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM 12, 13/14, 15, 16,  17 

SHELLEY,  PERCY  BYSSHE 37 

SIDNEY,  SIR  PHILIP 6,  7 

SMITH,  CHARLOTTE 26 

SOUTHEY,  ROBERT 33 

SPENSER,  EDMUND 3,  4, 5 

SURREY,  EARL  OF v 2 

SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON  CHARLES 76,  77 

SYLVESTER,  JOSHUAH 10 

SYMONDS,  JOHN  ADDINGTON 78, 79 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED,  LORD 52 

TENNYSON-TURNER,  CHARLES 47, 48 

THOMPSON,  FRANCIS 97 

TODHUNTER,  JOHN    77,  78 

TRENCH,  ARCHBISHOP 46 

WADDINGTON,  SAMUEL 36 

WAITHMAN,  H.  M 104 

WARTON,  THOMAS 25 

WATSON,  WILLIAM 95, 96 

WATTS-DUNTON,  THEODORE 71,  72,  73 

WHITE,  HENRY  KIRKE 34 

WHITE,  JOSEPH  BLANCO 33 

WOODS,  MARGARET  L 94 

WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM 28,  29,  30,  31,  32 

WYATT,  SIR  THOMAS 1 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

A  child,  with  mystic  eyes  and  flowing  hair 90 

A  Moth  belated,  —  sun  and  zephyr-kist 62 

A  Rose,  as  fair  as  ever  saw  the  North 21 

A  Sonnet  is  a  moment's  monument 63 

A  tract  of  land  swept  by  the  salt  sea  foam 78 

A  wretched  thing  it  were,  to  have  our  heart 46 

A  wrinkled,  crabbed  man  they  picture  thee 33 

Ah,  sweet  Content!  where  is  thy  mild  abode? 18 

Alexis,  here  she  stayed;  among  these  pines 20 

As  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er 43 

As  on  my  bed  at  dawn  I  mused  and  prayed 48 

As  one  that  for  a  weary  space  has  lain 85 

Assured  of  worthiness,  we  do  not  dread . .  67 

At  the  round  earth's  imagined  corners  blow 18 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  Saints,  whose  bones ....  23 

Avert,  High  Wisdom,  never  vainly  wooed 68 

Beauty,  sweet  Love,  is  like  the  morning  dew 9 

Behind  thy  pasteboard,  on  thy  battered  hack 81 

"  Behold!  it  is  a  draught  from  Lethe's  wave 94 

Beneath  the  loveliest  dream  there  coils  a  fear 72 

Blind  Cyclops,  hurling  stones  of  destiny 62 

Blown  through  the  gusty  spaces  of  the  night 96 

Bright  Star  of  Beauty!  on  whose  Eyelids  sit 11 

Bright  star,  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art! 40 

But  one  short  week  ago  the  trees  were  bare 78 

By  day  she  wooes  me,  soft,  exceeding  fair 69 

By  thine  own  tears  thy  song  must  tears  beget 65 

Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night 10 

Come,  blessed  Darkness,  come  and  bring  thy  balm 61 

Come  Sleep!  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace 6 

Could  I  have  sung  one  Song  that  should  survive 57 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a  cloud 24 

Darkly,  as  by  some  gloomed  mirror  glassed 95 

Dear  wood,  and  you,  sweet  solitary  place 20 

Death,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have  called  thee 19 

Divers  doth  use,  as  I  have  heard  and  know 1 

Down  the  long  hall  she  glistens  like  a  star 89 

Eager  and  shy,  as  when  among  her  peers 99 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair 28 

110 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Eternal  spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind! 35 

Even  thus,  methinks,  a  city  reared  should  be 52 

Fair  art  thou,  Phillis,  ay,  so  fair,  sweet  maid 8 

Fairfax,  whose  name  in  arms  through  Europe  rings 22 

Farewell  to  thee,  and  to  our  dreams  farewell 73 

Foil'd  by  our  fellow-men,  depressed,  outworn 58 

Friend,  who  in  these  sad  numbers  dost  deplore 96 

From  child  to  youth;  from  youth  to  arduous  man 65 

From  morn  to  eve  they  struggled  —  Life  and  Death 81 

From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring 15 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 13 

"Give  me  the  wine  of  happiness,"  I  cried 85 

Go  from  me.  Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 50 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass 34 

Haply  some  Rajah  first  in  ages  gone. 57 

Hark  you  such  sound  as  quivers?  Kings  will  hear 102 

Having  this  day  my  horse,  my  hand,  my  lance 7 

He  loved  her;  having  felt  his  love  begin 98 

High  in  the  organ-loft,  with  lillied  hah* 90 

How  do  I  love  thee?  Let  me  count  the  ways 51 

How  like  the  leper,  with  his  own  sad  cry 47 

How  long,  O  Lord?  —  The  voice  is  sounding  still 69 

How  strange  the  sculptures  that  adorn  these  towers! 45 

How  sweet  the  tuneful  bells'  responsive  peal! 27 

How  sweet  to  be  thus  nestling  deep  in  boughs 38 

I  enter,  and  I  see  thee  in  the  gloom 45 

I  have  known  cities  with  the  strong-armed  Rhine 54 

I  know  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays 19 

I  listened  to  the  music  broad  and  deep 91 

I  longed  for  rest,  and  some  one  spoke  me  fair 74 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 37 

I  must  not  think  of  thee;  and,  tired  yet  strong 93 

I  said,  "I  will  find  God,"  and  forth  I  went 84 

I  saw  a  picture  once  by  Angelo 98 

I  saw  the  Master  of  the  Sun.  He  stood 55 

I  sometimes  muse,  when  my  adventurous  gaze 88 

I  will  not  rail  or  grieve,  when  torpid  eld 74 

I  wonder  oft  why  God,  who  is  so  good 88 

If  I  have  sinned  in  act,  I  may  repent 41 

If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me 103 

If  Love  should  count  you  worthy,  and  should  deign 105 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought 50 

In  dim  green  depths  rot  ingot-laden  ships 86 

111 


.INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

In  the  old  void  of  unrecorded  time 54 

In  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine 25 

Invisible  as  a  wind  along  the  sky 87 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free 29 

It  may  indeed  be  phantasy  when  1 32 

It  was  late  summer,  and  the  grass  again 36 

Lay  down  thy  burden  at  this  gate  and  knock 83 

Leave  me,  O  Love,  which  reachest  but  to  dust 7 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 17 

Like  a  musician  that  with  flying  finger 59 

Like  a  young  child  who  to  his  mother's  door 103 

Like  as  a  huntsman  after  weary  chase 4 

Lord,  with  what  care  hast  Thou  begirt  us  round! 21 

Love,  he  is  nearer,  though  the  moralist 97 

Mark  when  she  smiles  with  amiable  cheer 3 

Mary !  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings 26 

Methinks  I  have  passed  through  some  dreadful  door 53 

Methought  I  saw  my  late  espoused  saint 24 

Methought  I  saw  the  grave  where  Laura  lay 5 

Milton!  thou  should 'st  be  living  at  this  hour 29 

Most  glorious  Lord  of  life!  that,  on  this  day 4 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplif ted  eyes 32 

Mother  of  those  whose  need  of  mothering 104 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold 38 

My  lady's  presence  makes  the  Roses  red 9 

My  love  for  thee  doth  march  like  armed  men 84 

My  love  is  strengthen'd,  though  more  weak  in  seeming ...  16 

Mysterious  Night!  when  our  first  parent  knew 33 

Nay,  never  once  to  feel  we  are  alone 100 

Nearer  the  eagles  swoop  in  darkening  rings 91 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 14 

No  more  these  passion-worn  faces  shall  men's  eyes 93 

Not  by  the  minutes  of  thin  torture  spun 101 

Not  I  myself  know  all  my  love  for  thee 64 

Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 14 

Not  that  the  earth  is  changing,  O  my  God! 67 

Now  on  the  summit  of  Love's  topmost  peak 75 

O  Earth,  lie  heavily  upon  her  eyes 70 

O  Friend!  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look 28 

O  Mighty  Mother,  hearken!  for  thy  foes 61 

O  Nightingale,  that  on  yon  bloomy  spray 22 

O  soft  embalmer  of  the  still  midnight! 40 

O  Son  of  man,  by  lying  tongues  adored 77 

112 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

O  Time!  who  know'st  a  lenient  hand  to  lay 27 

Oft  have  I  brooded  on  defeat  and  pain 89 

Oft  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 44 

Oft  in  the  after-days,  when  thou  and  1 63 

On  a  starred  night  Prince  Lucifer  uprose 68 

One  after  one  the  high  emotions  fade 100 

One  day  I  wrote  her  name  upon  the  strand 5 

Once  more  the  eternal  melodies  from  far 37 

Others  abide  our  question.  Thou  art  free 58 

Our  love  is  not  a  fading,  earthly  flower 56 

Over  that  breathing  waste  of  friends  and  foes 60 

Peace,  shepherd,  peace!  What  boots  it  singing  on? 94 

Pleasures  lie  thickest  where  no  pleasures  seem 43 

Poet,  whose  unscarred  feet  have  trodden  Hell 73 

Rebuke  me  not!  I  have  nor  wish  nor  skill 79 

Remember  me  when  I  am  gone  away 70 

Revolving  worlds,  revolving  systems,  yea 53 

Royal  and  saintly  Cashel!  I  would  gaze 35 

Science!  true  daughter  of  Old  Time  thou  art! 48 

Scorn  not  the  sonnet;  Critic,  you  have  frowned 31 

Set  me  whereas  the  sun  doth  parch  the  green 2 

Shall  he  not  bless  me?  Will  he  never  speak 82 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day? 12 

She  turned  the  fair  page  with  her  fairer  hand 60 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part 11 

So  all  the  vows  of  friendship  which  we  swore 87 

Some  laws  there  are  too  sacred  for  the  hand 36 

Speak  low  to  me,  my  Saviour,  low  and  sweet 49 

Spring  speaks  again,  and  all  our  woods  are  stirred 76 

Surprised  by  joy  —  impatient  as  the  Wind 31 

That  he  is  dead  the  sons  of  kings  are  glad 71 

That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  behold 15 

The  bubble  of  the  silver-springing  waves 59 

The  darkness  throbbed  that  night  with  the  great  heat ....  92 

The  dead  abide  with  us!  Though  stark  and  cold 82 

The  expense  of  spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame 17 

The  garlands  fade  that  Spring  so  lately  wove 26 

The  holiest  of  all  holidays  are  those 44 

The  hollow  sea-shell  which  for  years  hath  stood 86 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day 66 

The  Ocean,  at  the  bidding  of  the  Moon 47 

The  nightmare  melts  at  last,  and  London  wakes 99 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead 39 

113 


•       INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

The  soote  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings 2 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon 30 

There  is  a  silence  where  hath  been  no  sound 42 

These  have  I  lost:  now  cushats  only  call 104 

These  strewn  thoughts,  by  the  mountain  pathway  sprung .  102 

They  do  but  grope  in  learning's  pedant  round 42 

They  rose  to  where  their  sovran  eagle  sails 52 

This  holy  season,  fit  to  fast  and  pray 3 

Though  to  the  vilest  things  beneath  the  moon 56 

To  leave  unseen  so  many  a  glorious  sight 46 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent 39 

To  stand  upon  a  windy  pinnacle 79 

Two  Voices  are  there;  one  is  of  the  sea 30 

Under  the  arch  of  Life,  where  love  and  death 66 

Were  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain 10 

What  art  thou,  Mighty  One!  and  where  thy  seat? 34 

What  lies  beyond  the  splendour  of  the  sun 92 

What  means  this  mighty  chant,  wherein  the  wail 77 

What  meant  the  poets  in  invective  verse 8 

What  power  is  this?  What  witchery  wins  my  feet 72 

What  was't  awakened  first  the  untried  ear 41 

When  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one? 64 

When  I  behold  what  pleasure  is  Pursuit 76 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 23 

When  I  consider  Life  and  its  few  years 95 

When  I  hear  laughter  from  a  tavern  door 80 

When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes 12 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 16 

When  in  the  dark  we  slowly  drift  away 97 

When  our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and  strong 51 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 13 

Where  Venta's  Norman  castle  still  uprears 25 

While  men  pay  reverence  to  the  mighty  things 75 

Whoso  list  to  hunt?  I  know  where  is  an  hind! 1 

With  brain  o'erworn,  with  heart  a  summer  clod 83 

With  heart  not  yet  half -rested  from  Mont  Blanc 55 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon!  thou  climb 'st  the  skies! 6 

With  stammering  lips  and  insufficient  sound 49 

With  you  a  part  of  me  hath  passed  away 101 

Yet  it  is  pitiful  how  friendships  die 80 

Yon  silvery  billows  breaking  on  the  beach 71 


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